by Iain Cameron
‘Terrific mate, well done to you and pass the same to the rest of the team.’
‘Thanks Matt. See you in a few days.’
‘Good news?’ Rosie asked. She was dressed in a lime green swimsuit and carrying a book and a small bag, looking to the world like an experienced holidaymaker. The weight she had lost lately, a consequence of the stress and anxiety over the departure of her husband, suited her.
‘Looking good,’ he said.
‘What, the phone call, or me?’
‘Both.’
‘Don’t get any ideas, buster. The staff might think we’re a couple out for a short romantic break, but just remember, this is work.’
‘It doesn’t feel too much like work to me,’ he said, spreading his arms wide and looking out on a glassy, calm sea, two Hobie Cats sailing past, kids messing about in the shallows, and some bloke doing a serious swim across the mouth of the bay.
‘Who was on the phone? Was it Joseph?’
‘Yep. They raided the place where Suzy was being held. There was no one guarding her, so they got her out without a fight.’
‘Oh, Matt, that’s fantastic news. I bet you’re pleased.’
‘I am. She’s such a sweet girl, too innocent to be mixed up in what’s turned into a bad situation.’
‘Feeling guilty?’
‘You bet.’
‘The place where she was being held might tell us who’s been holding her.’
‘Maybe, or is it just another building to add to the burgeoning Wood portfolio? He should be in the property business that guy, not drugs.’
‘Well, you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him about a change in career. I’ve been talking to Kingsley. We’re flying back to the UK with him on Wednesday.’
FIFTY-ONE
Despite Highgate possessing one of the few graveyards in the UK that doubled as a tourist attraction, their farewell to David Burke took place in a crematorium. Matt suspected David hadn’t exactly articulated this wish in his lifetime, as he was a half-full kind of guy who thought more about the positive aspects of life even when he was dealing with dangerous situations. Matt imagined his ex-wife, a forceful lady at the best of times, would have decided it for him.
The seventy-seat building was crammed with his family and friends, several officers from MI5 and MI6, plus a few top brass from his old regiment. Matt had been liaising with one of David’s co-workers, Lauren Yates, before this, passing information gleaned from interviewing their many prisoners, now including the celebrity drug dealer, Simon Wood. They had arranged to meet after the funeral to tie up a few loose ends.
Matt had been so concerned about making sure the cops who came to the airport to take Wood into custody were who they were supposed to be, he forgot all about the hounds of the press. Once out of the arrivals hall, he and Rosie were assailed by dozens of reporters and photographers: flashes firing, Wood’s name being called, questions bellowed, and everyone jostling to try to make elbow room.
Wood’s picture had appeared on the front page of just about every newspaper, with stories of the public schoolboy-turned drug dealer living the life of a rich recluse, luxuriating in a multi-million-pound villa in the Caribbean. Naturally, several of the tabloids featured more pictures of his vivacious partner than the man himself. Wood, starved of this sort of attention for so long, lapped it up and was only too happy to talk into any microphone thrust into his face.
This feeding frenzy contrasted sharply with the subdued mood at the crematorium. When it was over, Matt spent some time talking to David’s daughters, and several members of the MI5 contingent, before he and Lauren set off to walk along Highgate High Street for their meeting. They were looking for a place to sit down and have coffee, and finalise a few outstanding issues in order for them to close their respective David Burke files.
They purposefully avoided the large chains as they were often full of young people tapping assiduously into their phones or laptops. If they picked up even a thread of what he and Lauren would be discussing their thumbs would be working overtime as they desperately posted messages on Twitter and Instagram, telling their friends what they’d just overheard. Instead, they headed into ‘Julie’s’, a large, spacious café that doubled as a bakery.
They found a quiet corner and Matt went off to do the honours at the counter. Despite the delicious smells of fresh bread, the dazzling array of buns and pastries, and the colourful tray of tarts, some topped with pineapple, others with strawberry, the funeral had put the dampers on his appetite. Surprising, as he’d had nothing to eat all morning.
‘Thanks Matt,’ Lauren said when he had placed her coffee in front of her and sat down.
Lauren was dressed in a navy flowered dress, and Matt, beige trousers and a blue shirt. Not the funeral attire he was accustomed to, but all the mourners had been instructed ‘not to wear black’.
‘The office is so quiet without him,’ Lauren said, staring into her cup. ‘The guy who replaced him says so little; we often forget he’s there.’
‘I would have thought being circumspect was a positive attribute for an MI5 agent.’
‘Oh, it is,’ she said looking up, ‘but it’s one thing keeping secrets, it’s another being anonymous.’
From the folio he had earlier retrieved from his car, Matt handed Lauren various statements made by Yusuf Batuk, the TFF leader, and Kerem Naskali, the leader of the TFF Operations group. He had a copy of Simon Wood’s statement in there too, but unless she asked for it, it wouldn’t be offered. MI5 had shown no interest in Wood to date.
She read through each report in detail, asking a question here, clarifying a point there. This was a trait he found in many MI5 agents, in contrast to murder detectives, who received so much paperwork they were forced to speed-read. The process took time, but Matt had realised a long time back that when engaged in intelligence work, the devil was in the detail. A missing word or a different interpretation of a sentence was often the difference between a report being consigned to the filing cabinet, or shredder, or a high-level investigation involving multiple agencies being launched.
‘So, the TFF in the UK are no longer an effective fighting force,’ Matt said. ‘Is there anything you’ve seen at your end to suggest they might try to start up again?’
She sighed. ‘No. They’ve had their fingers burnt in the UK quite seriously this time, and we don’t think they’ll be back.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Matt said and meant it.
‘I saw your picture in the paper.’
‘You and my boss. He didn’t take it well.’
‘I noticed Simon had his leg strapped.’
‘It was hard to avoid it since he was wearing shorts, the showboater. We were involved in a gun battle at his villa when we went there to arrest him. Wood’s security guards opened fire on the police and he was hit in the crossfire.’
‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.’
He smiled wanly. ‘You bet.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘He was treated at a hospital in Antigua. Despite the Caribbean’s reputation for being a holiday destination, when there is serious crime, it often involves firearms. They did a good job removing the slug and dressing the wound.’
‘No complications?’
Matt shook his head. ‘Other than his bitching mouth.’
‘Perhaps understandable, in the circumstances.’
‘What’s your sudden interest in Wood? I thought drug dealers like him were more within the jurisdiction of the Met.’
‘Five have no interest,’ she said looking defensive. ‘I was asking purely because it was a big story in all the newspapers, nothing more. What about–’
‘You know Wood, don’t you?’
‘What?’
Matt wasn’t fishing. Work done by Amos had unearthed what he was about to tell Lauren. Since discovering this, Matt had also discussed the issue with senior people from Lauren’s organisation and they supported what Matt was about to do
.
‘You know Simon Wood.’
‘Matt, I know you’re good at kicking in doors and eliciting confessions from reluctant prisoners at the point of a gun, but leave amateur psychology to the professionals.’
‘Don’t patronise me, Lauren. I’ve done the courses, same as you.’
‘Doing a course doesn’t make you an expert.’
‘Perhaps course isn’t the right word. Yeah, research is better. Our research tells us you two were pals. What was it: neighbours, university, work?’
‘Where the hell did you get that? Have you been spying on me?’
‘That’s rich coming from a spook.’
‘I expect if I do deny it, you’ll extract my last three school reports from that case you’re carrying, like a bloody conjurer.’
‘Well which is it?’
She didn’t respond.
‘If you won’t say, I will. You met at university. You were friends at university.’
She sighed, which Matt took as a yes.
‘He’s a handsome guy, winning personality, that is, when he’s not bitching. You were more than friends at university, good friends I would say.’
She shrugged. ‘I liked him. My younger self had a crush on him, for god’s sake. So what?’
‘It was a bit more than that.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘You were lovers. For all I know, during all the time he was married.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
Now, Matt was fishing. Back in the day, when Wood still lived in the UK, surveillance reports reported a blond-haired woman visiting Wood’s house when Imogen was in the States on modelling assignments. They had never been able to identify this ‘mystery woman’, thought for a time to be his sister. With a fresh pair of eyes and ears, and in combination with everything that had happened recently, the missing pieces of the jigsaw were starting to fall into place.
‘Did you hate David so much you would betray him, or does Simon have some sort of hold on you?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me, I’m a good listener.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘C’mon Lauren, there’s only you and me here. I want to close this case and move on as much as you do.’
‘I can’t, he was your friend.’
‘I know you betrayed him, you can’t hurt me more than that.’
Matt’s TFF interrogator had mentioned an informer in the security services, and Matt’s own nagging brain told him that Tamplin and Thomas, or whoever provided David’s address, would never have known it without inside information. All roads pointed to someone who worked closely with David, to the woman sitting in front of him.
‘I can’t, Matt. I’m leaving.’ She got up from her seat.
‘Sit down, Lauren.’
‘What if I don’t? Will you shoot me?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think I took a gun to a funeral?’ It was Matt’s turn to lie. It wasn’t that he feared reprisal, but HSA agents, like the charge card advertising strapline, never left home without it. ‘I want to hear your side of the story.’
‘Are you sure you want to hear it?’
‘Call me OCD if you like, but I like to put a tick in every box. I want closure.’
She slowly returned to her seat. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Did the TFF really exist, or are they merely a construct of Simon’s vivid imagination to get back at me?’
‘Very good, Matt. You should be at MI5 if you can make deductions like that. They existed as a ragtag group of ideologues, meeting in back rooms in Stoke Newington to denounce the Turkish President. At the time, they had no plans or money to move their protest beyond meetings and leaflets.’
‘What changed?’
‘Simon’s help and financial muscle. He organised them into cells, gave them lots of money and put them in touch with drug and arms dealers,’ she said, sounding proud. ‘All this providing they would work for him and do a job for him.’
‘It’s a big undertaking just to get back at me.’
‘Once he’d dealt with you, he had other plans for them. The Turkish President was buying into America’s ‘War on Drugs’ mantra. It was starting to hurt Simon’s business so he wanted him stopped.’
‘He must have snorted too much coke one night to come up with that one.’
She bristled at the criticism. ‘It’s hard for the likes of you and I to understand the power that seriously rich people have. Just look at newspaper owners and how they can influence the outcome of an election.’
‘All the same…’
‘Simon hates you, more than you can ever know. Killing Rod had left a big hole in his heart. He wanted to make you suffer by killing anyone close to you.’
‘What had David ever done for you to hate him so much you would betray him?’
‘I didn’t hate David, but he could be a righteous sod. When he found out about me and Simon, he threatened to expose me. It would have finished me as a Five agent, but I didn’t betray him. When Simon was staying over at my place, he must have taken a look at some of the papers I had in the house and found David’s details.’
Whoa, a curveball. It sounded plausible, but why would a senior MI5 officer run the risk of having an on-the-run felon, even one she was in love with, visit her house during one of his rare forays to the UK? Matt was convinced she had told Wood about David, and so were Lauren’s bosses at Five. Matt, in a way, almost felt sorry for Lauren, and he didn’t try to stop her when she rose from the seat a second time.
‘Bye, Matt. It’s been interesting talking to you, but I hope it’s for the last time.’
‘Bye Lauren. Don’t worry, it will be.’
Lauren walked through the door of the coffee shop. She was surprised when two men appeared and locked arms either side of her. Matt’s last view of her was her angry face looking back at him as she was marched over to a waiting car.
FIFTY-TWO
Matt walked through Covent Garden Market. It was Friday evening and the area was thronging with tourists. He liked coming here, not so much for the market, with its expensive stalls, or the pricey restaurants where diners were given a time slot and an hour-and-a-half to finish their meal, but for the street theatre.
It might be a simple busker equipped only with a guitar; a painted lady standing statue-still, or a showman regaling a big crowd with a wide range of spectacular magic tricks. Matt liked them all. It was a good place for him to experience the wonder and joy of the collective spirit.
For the first time since Emma’s murder, all the protagonists involved in her killing were no longer on the streets. Wood was in jail awaiting trial, Reno Tito and Jack Harris had been jailed some time back, and Roderick Lamar, Wood’s nephew, was dead. It was Harris who had lured Emma to her death at the house in Essex, while Roderick Lamar was responsible for pulling the trigger. Tito was Lamar’s minder, and had been standing guard outside the door when the murder took place, and Lamar would never have killed a serving police officer without his uncle’s approval.
For almost a year Matt had been focused on bringing Emma’s killers to justice. A part of him wanted to return to normal life, to stop looking over his shoulder, obsessing over small details, while another part would miss the adrenalin rush and the feel of working to right a wrong. Gill had mentioned he was looking for someone to work solo, sometimes undercover, other times on secretive jobs, both deniable by HSA. He was still thinking about it.
One part of his future was now coming into focus, some distance in front of him: Suzy was standing outside the bar where they had arranged to meet. For such a touristy place, Covent Garden had a great selection of traditional pubs, no doubt the high volume of casual visitors they received through their doors every day making a major contribution towards their survival.
He opened his arms to hug her, but as a consequence of her injuries, it had all the warmth and emotion of the embrace of a maiden aunt. He’d been to the hospital to se
e her on several occasions, but each time she was so zonked out with tranquillisers and painkillers he doubted she would remember. He’d been in that situation himself so many times, he could sympathise.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘The pain’s gone, but now I’m feeling aches and itches more than anything else. Shall we go inside? I need a seat.’
After finding a place to sit, Matt went to the bar. There had been an HSA/MI5 booze-up the previous night to celebrate the capture of David Burke’s killers and the freeing of Jonty and Suzy. The arrest of Lauren Yates, the mole inside MI5, had initially left a pall over proceedings, but as the night progressed, various MI5 officers approached Matt and told him they had long suspected her guilt. Matt had felt delicate when he woke up, but now, after much of the morning spent in the gym, he was ready for a beer.
The bar was busy, and he had to wait to be served. The barman was efficient, but the small group of Americans in front of him wanted to try a traditional British pint and couldn’t decide which one to have. Matt could have shortened the discussion by deciding for them, but they didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer.
He carried the drinks to the table and took a seat. Suzy was smiling while looking at something on her phone. Her face was bruised around her nose and cheek where it had been stitched, giving her the look of someone who had smacked the windscreen in a bad car accident. Covered by her clothes, her ribs were strapped where her captors had broken two, and she had bandages around her shins and knees where they had made some deep cuts.
‘Good news?’ he asked, when she put her phone down.
‘A text from the director of the movie I was working on, the one you came to see. He’s asking when I expect to return to work. They miss me, apparently.’
‘When do you think?’
‘I’ll work from home from now until the end of the weekend. On Monday, I’m back at hospital when I hope all the bandages and dressings will be removed.’