The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

  ‘More information is expected soon, and we will keep you informed throughout the night. But for now we can summarise the most recent development in this tragic story. Eamon McGale, the man responsible for the death of Sir Neil Matthewson and for the attempted murder of former President Howard Thompson, has committed suicide while in police custody. He died before speaking to a lawyer and before being questioned by police, and so he leaves countless questions unasked and now probably unanswerable. Reporting for CNN from central London, I’m John Crane.’

  Crane’s image stayed in the centre of the screen for just a moment, until replaced by CNN’s unflappable early morning European anchorman Roger Waites. Waites began to speak, his delivery smooth and unflustered; the consummate professional. But Maguire had heard enough. Reaching out, he pressed the screen’s mute button. The cubicle was silent once again.

  Sarah stared at Maguire as he moved his arm away from the screen. Waiting to catch his eye. When she did she saw a concern that matched her own.

  ‘What the hell just happened, Jack?’

  ‘I don’t have a bloody clue,’ Maguire replied, shaking his head. ‘What do they mean “No chance to see a lawyer”? I thought you checked up on that? I thought you said Lawrence had to be there to see him?’

  ‘Lawrence was there to see him. He had to have been; there was no one else in custody. There was no other reason for him to be there. Plus that police sergeant told me that McGale’s lawyer was on the way. Jack, this is all wrong.’

  Maguire nodded but his confusion was obvious. He was as shocked as Sarah. Not just by the news of McGale’s suicide, but by the suggestion that the man had died before speaking about his actions and his motives.

  ‘Then that leaves two options, doesn’t it?’ Maguire finally said. ‘Either someone is making a hell of mistake, or there is a lot more to this than meets the eye.’

  Sarah had already considered the possibilities. Now she had moved on to their meaning. Her mind was working even faster than Maguire’s.

  ‘Jack, if they’re trying to hide that McGale saw a lawyer – that he did speak to someone – then they must be trying to keep something under wraps . . .’

  ‘. . . and if they want to keep something covered up,’ Maguire picked up where Sarah had stopped, ‘then we can’t just accept that McGale killed himself.’

  Both were now speaking in a whisper. They were reaching the same conclusions, and clearly struggling with what those conclusions had to mean.

  They sat in silence for a few moments as Sarah allowed their joint reasoning to sink in. She knew that the first option was more likely. That John Crane – or someone briefing John Crane – had made a mistake that would soon be corrected, with the world being told that McGale had seen a lawyer after all.

  But until that happened option two was still a possibility. And so it was worth considering the questions that scenario raised. What information did McGale have that was worth killing to conceal? How had he died, if not suicide? And if it had been murder, who the hell could get to him within the secure confines of Paddington Green police station, and how did they make it look like suicide? Who could hide the fact that McGale had seen a lawyer, and may have already told that lawyer everything? All of these questions hung in the air.

  ‘We know Daniel Lawrence saw McGale,’ Sarah finally said. ‘But the official story says that he didn’t. So does that mean he’s in on it? Lawrence, I mean?’

  Her tone was confused. Even disbelieving. What Sarah was asking did not sit with Daniel Lawrence’s image as an idealistic, crusading lawyer.

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ replied Maguire. ‘We don’t know we’re in cover-up territory just yet. It could be a mistake. The official statement might tell us that he did see a lawyer, so this could be a red herring.’

  ‘Could be,’ Sarah conceded. ‘But what if it isn’t? What if they say that McGale died before speaking to anyone? If they stick with that, then we know there is something going on. No one else knows Lawrence was there, Jack. No one else knows that this might be a goddamn cover-up.’

  Sarah could hear the over-excitement in her own voice. She was speaking in breathless whispers, which exaggerated the effect. It did not worry her. Even Maguire, for all of his experience, seemed less than grounded.

  ‘This is Watergate,’ Sarah continued. ‘This is Woodward and Bernstein. No one else has a clue about any of it. So how about we assume away until we find out we’re wrong, huh? How about we say we’re in cover-up territory until they prove that we’re not? Because we both know that there’s no damn story in option one.’

  Maguire smiled. A smile of pride. Sarah hardly noticed. She was on a roll.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Maguire asked.

  ‘I say we doorstep Lawrence early morning. See if he can give us some answers when he’s not expecting the questions.’

  ‘You want to wait until morning?’

  Maguire’s tone betrayed him; he was now mocking Sarah’s enthusiasm.

  ‘You don’t want to head out now? It’s not like we need to sleep or anything!’

  ‘Don’t try pressing my buttons, Jack,’ Sarah laughed. She knew her colleague too well to fall for – or to be offended by – his words. ‘The morning’s good enough. No one else even knows Lawrence was there, so it’s not a race. Plus, I need some sleep. It’s been a hell of a day.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Michael Devlin sat alone in the empty hospital corridor. A thousand thoughts crawled through his mind. None stayed long enough for an answer. Instead he was numb. Empty.

  It had been less than four hours since he had hung up the telephone. Since he had ended his conversation with Daniel, both amused and bemused, with a promise that they would speak in the morning. Since he had feared that his friend was going to make his life more eventful than he wanted. Those fears now seemed prophetic, but Michael had not foreseen how quickly his world could fall apart.

  His bedside telephone had barely woken him at 2 a.m.; he was still half-asleep when he answered. It did not last. The sound of hysterical breathing, sobbing and a distorted woman’s voice saw to that. Michael could neither recognise the caller nor understand what was being said, but it did not matter. Something was very wrong.

  Ignoring his own racing heart, he had called upon his skills as a witness handler to manage the caller. To slow her. To calm her. It took several minutes and, when he succeeded, he wished that he had failed. As the voice of Claire Lawrence finally emerged from the traumatised distortion only one word came to his mind: Daniel.

  What followed was a blur and even now, hours later, his memory remained sketchy. He had listened to everything Claire had to tell him. The words had hit like bullets. They should have paralysed him. They almost did, until some primal instinct had kicked in. Somehow, from somewhere, an unconscious sense of responsibility had taken over just as his conscious mind had closed down. A sense that had forced him to act as a brother would. After ensuring that the police officers would remain with Claire until he arrived, he rushed to her side.

  The Lawrence property’s front gate sat open when Michael arrived barely thirty minutes later. Record time. Not that it mattered now. He had driven the final few hundred feet of the driveway at a safer speed and parked.

  The main door to the house had five separate locks. None was secure. Michael did not need to step inside to see why. Before it was halfway open he had been met by the first devastating sight he would see tonight: Claire Lawrence, sitting and sobbing on the lowest step of the main staircase.

  Michael had sprinted to her side, past two uniformed police officers stood nearby. His knees had slid the last few feet as he threw his body down, level with Claire’s own. As he came to a stop he had wrapped her in his arms. For a few moments she was his world and he embraced her for all he was worth. As if he could suck the pain from her body and draw it into his own. It had no such effect. Instead she had sobbed harder, clutching at the one thing that still connected her to the man she had
lost.

  The temptation to remain on the floor, to give in to grief, was overwhelming, but Michael had resisted. Daniel’s priority in life had been his wife and child. Everything he had done had been for them, and now his friend would do the same. Grief would have to wait.

  The next hours had been perhaps the most difficult of Michael’s life. Hours in which he contacted Claire’s mother and father, telling them of their loss and arranging for them to come to the house that night. He contacted Daniel’s own parents and told them, as gently as he could, that they had lost their only son. And he did the one thing that he dreaded above all else. The identification of Daniel’s body.

  All of this he had done, and it led to where he now sat. On a cold seat in an empty corridor. Just moments earlier he had walked from the hospital morgue with any hope of it all being a terrible mistake erased. He had seen Daniel. So he knew for sure that his friend – the man who’d been like a brother to him – was dead.

  Michael stayed seated. This was the third time in his life that he had lost someone he loved. The third time he reacted without tears. They would have been welcome. Any emotion – sobbing; wailing; screaming; even hysteria – would feel better than this emptiness.

  ‘Mr Devlin?’

  The voice came out of nowhere. Looking up he saw that the speaker was the police officer who had driven him to the hospital from Daniel’s home.

  ‘Mr Devlin, is there anything I can help you with?’

  Her voice was gentle. Soothing. Michael found himself enjoying its effect. It gave him something else to think about, if only for an instant. She waited for Michael to respond. He did not.

  ‘Mr Devlin, are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Michael finally replied. ‘I’m OK. I’m sorry, I’ve kept you waiting.’

  ‘Oh no, you haven’t,’ she replied. ‘You can take as long as you like, Mr Devlin. I just wanted to make sure you were, you know—’

  Michael smiled. It could not have been more forced.

  ‘No, officer, I can’t.’

  Michael’s words were directed towards himself as much as anyone else.

  ‘I’ve got my life to grieve, but not tonight. Tonight I have to be there for his family.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The hotel telephone rang at 7 a.m. It was Joshua’s habit to set an alarm call for that time. It was never necessary. This morning was no exception. He had been awake for over an hour already.

  It had been less than five hours since he had returned to his Kensington suite. The four miles from the abandoned Land Rover to the railway station had been covered quickly but the early-hours train service had been less efficient. It had doubled his expected journey time. That could not have been helped. Losing the car had been necessary and use of the transport system unavoidable.

  The delay was ultimately irrelevant but it had still irked him. Kept him awake too long. So Joshua had hardly slept when his body clock – honed by years of obedience – ordered him up. Rested or not, 6 a.m. would always be his limit.

  He had showered before bed and woke up clean. It made no difference. Routine was Joshua’s master and so he showered again. Quick and cold. Enough to wash the sleep from his eyes and from his mind. When finished he dried off and pulled on the clothes he had laid out the night before.

  Reinvigorated, Joshua turned his attention to the large metallic case that sat by the room’s desk. He reached out, grasped it by the handle and lifted. Once it was on the desktop Joshua opened it.

  From the outside it looked like any other suitcase, no different to the countless others dragged around the globe by travelling businessmen. Two simple three-digit codes provided the only security. Exactly the impression its makers intended. Once opened it was an entirely different proposition. The second security barrier could only be bypassed by Joshua’s unique fingerprint, which revealed an arsenal of weaponry within.

  Each weapon was carefully removed and placed onto a sheet he had spread across the floor, between the desk and the bed. When all were in place Joshua lowered himself to the far end of the sheet. Legs crossed for comfort, he reached out and lifted the hunting knife with which he began this exercise each morning. With a sharpening stone in his left hand he spent exactly sixty seconds on the blade, running the stone along its length. Ensuring it was razor-sharp. It always was.

  Once the knife was back in place he continued the ritual. Weapon after weapon came to his hands, each one expertly inspected. Modified. Maintained. It was a compulsion. But it went further than that. It gave him absolute confidence. Absolute peace of mind. The closest he could ever come to therapy.

  A calm came over him as he worked. It had never been so welcome. His mind had been in turmoil since the first call from Stanton the previous night. Every action since then had been methodical. Perfect. The work of a professional. But always, at the back of his mind, something had been screaming. Only now had that screaming stopped.

  Joshua cleared his mind as he reached out for the next weapon. Every distraction was expelled. Every other thought – conscious or unconscious – ejected. It left just one: Stanton.

  The man had been an enigma from the start. A disguised voice at the end of a no doubt secured telephone line. The access he had arranged and the information he had possessed had surprised even Joshua. Yet somehow none of this had prepared Joshua for the unthinkable. That Stanton, a man who took such relish in knowing so much, might know even more besides.

  But he did. That much was now clear. Joshua was not going to waste time asking how. Instead he concentrated on the meaning of that knowledge. On its effect. It left him helpless, with no choice but to do as he was ordered. It was not a position he was used to. Nor was it one that he enjoyed.

  The thought remained for the next ninety minutes. Through Joshua’s weapons check. Through a lengthy television news report on Eamon McGale’s death. Through his morning bodyweight work-out. Something should have distracted him. Should have replaced the feeling that he was not in control of his own destiny. But nothing did. Nothing could remove the image of his wife and son – the only two people who meant anything – at the mercy of the faceless Stanton.

  Joshua pushed himself harder as the clock showed 8.30 a.m. Dug deeper into his well of endurance. He was used to the combination of intense press-up and sit-up pyramid sets. He put himself through them every morning, pushing his core muscles beyond their limits in an attempt to hold back the effects of time. What was not so familiar was the intensity. Joshua would usually have stopped by now. But he pushed on, hoping that the pain would finally replace the misery.

  It did not get the chance.

  The distinctive ringtone swept every other thought aside. He filed them for later. For now, the alarm bell had sounded.

  Joshua leaped to his feet and grabbed the mobile, knowing already who the caller would be.

  ‘Stanton.’

  ‘Congratulations, Sergeant. A job well done.’

  There was no need to question the reference. It could only be Daniel Lawrence.

  ‘Thank you.’ The reply came through gritted teeth. ‘I see you’ve dealt with your side of the problem. Can I ask how you got to him?’

  ‘Let’s keep our exchanges on a need-to-know basis, shall we?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Joshua’s position demanded obedience. It did not demand good manners.

  ‘So what now? Are we clean?’

  ‘I think we’re very close to spotless,’ replied Stanton, ‘but not quite. There is one other person I need you to visit for me.’

  ‘Just tell me who.’ Joshua was growing impatient. ‘Tell me who and I’ll deal with it this morning.’

  ‘Not so fast, Sergeant.’

  Was there a hint of mockery in Stanton’s voice? Joshua could not be sure through the effect of the electronic modulator, but he suspected that there was. It seemed that, despite the stress of the situation, the man was enjoying his dramatic role.

  Stanton continued.

  ‘It can’t
be this morning. This person is currently out of reach. Probably until tonight.’

  The word ‘probably’ felt heavy on Joshua’s ear. It was not what he expected to hear from Stanton. It smacked of uncertainty.

  ‘Who’s the mark?’

  ‘His name is Michael Devlin. A nobody.’

  ‘Then what’s this nobody done to deserve what’s coming?’

  ‘I thought we agreed it would be “need to know”, Sergeant?’

  ‘I do need to know. Why he’s on your radar could affect how I tackle this. So what am I up against?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. He’s nobody. A barrister.’ There was a pause. Stanton seemed reluctant to disclose more. Finally, he continued. ‘If you must know, Sergeant, I have accessed Daniel Lawrence’s telephone records. Between being summoned to Paddington Green police station and arriving there he telephoned no one. But between leaving and his death there seems to have been a call, made from his car. That call was to Michael Devlin.’

  ‘And you’re sure it wasn’t about something unconnected?’

  ‘Of course I’m not sure.’

  Stanton’s words should have been spoken with emotion – irritation, exasperation, anything – but the flat metallic tone rendered them as colourless as ever.

  ‘But as they work together on criminal cases, the chances are that the conversation was about Daniel Lawrence’s latest criminal client. Which would be Eamon McGale. So no, we cannot be certain but that possibility alone has to be enough.’

  Joshua considered Stanton’s words. They left him in no doubt about his wishes. But so much was at stake. It would pay to be thorough.

  ‘Then what exactly is it you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Surely that’s obvious. I want Michael Devlin dead by the end of this day.’

  ‘As you wish. Tonight. Where will I find him?’

  ‘At his home address. It has been sent to your phone already. Along with everything else you need to know.’

  Joshua was not surprised. Efficiency had been a hallmark of Stanton throughout. There was no reason that should change now. Joshua took the phone from his ear and opened his messages to find a newly received one that included photographs and information about Michael Devlin.