His pursuer approached at a crawl. Tom stared through the glasses. The rider had what appeared to be a tracking monitor on his handlebars. The man stared at the woods, directly towards Tom. Capgras pulled back out of sight . He took out his phone, deleted all its data and returned it to factory settings. It took too long. But there was no sound of the BMW. What was the rider doing? What did he have planned?
Tom left the phone behind a tree stump, then scurried down a different track, ducking under branches, sliding on his backside down a steep bank. He ran through the trees towards the Norton. She was there, safe enough. Still no sound from the BMW. Tom kicked his bike into life and drove through the woods following a green lane he knew well, from walks here in his early twenties with a girlfriend whose parents lived close by. What was her name? It escaped him, but he remembered the way her blonde hair fell over deep brown eyes, and how she held him tight when they rolled together, moaning in his ear and promising she would always love him. Always, in this case, meaning two months. She dumped him for a posh boy with a fancy car and a job in the city, and an accent that fitted with her lifestyle and expectations.
The BMW rider would have picked up the sound of his engine, Tom was aware of that, well enough. But now he had an advantage: he knew the territory, the back-routes and a fast way through a farmyard where a service road put you onto the dual carriageway, heading for London.
It was impossible to outrun the BMW for long, but he didn’t intend to. He hid once more, this time in a dilapidated barn, the roof fallen in. Its condition had deteriorated badly since he was last here, with Lucy, that was her name. They did it in the haystacks and she lost a shoe, never found it and they had to make up a stupid story for her parents which they didn’t believe, partly because she giggled the whole time. She was a sweet girl, but not his type. Who was?
He waited, skulking behind a wall until the BMW approached. The man had followed his tyre tracks this far, but as he saw the main road he opened up the throttle and tore off, sure that Capgras must be up ahead. Tom pulled out and followed him, hanging back so as not be seen.
Chapter 24
Spies
Ben, off school with a cold, lay on his bed, reading a book about a wizard who sails the world hunting dragons, pursued by his own shadow, his fate wrapped up in spells. His mother made him promise not to go out, or open the door if anyone called, or do anything stupid. Just this once, she’d pleaded. Make it easy for her.
She’d seemed strung out, but refused to talk about it. She’d dressed smarter than normal though, so she wasn’t seeing Mark or going on a demo. It was something bad; he was sure of that.
Rain pattered against the window. Ben snuggled under a fleece blanket, the book propped on a pillow, his feet waggling in the air. He froze, motionless, at the familiar sound of Mark’s van. He leapt from the bed and peered outside, hidden behind the curtain. The diesel engine laboured as Mark parked in a tight spot. He got out, looked up and down the street, crossed the road. Moments later a key turned in the front door.
Mark hadn’t visited for weeks. Not since that demo. Not since Ben saw his mother on the television, being beaten up by the police. Don’t ask about it, his uncle had urged him. But Ben knew his mother cried when she thought he was asleep. Part of him longed to run downstairs and confront Mark for the hurt he’d brought into their home. But another part of him wanted to play at being the spy.
Ben grabbed his smartphone from beside the bed and tucked it into a pocket. The phone had been a present from his grandparents, to keep him safe, they said, give him the means to call for help or research his homework. He used it for playing games, taking photos, and keeping Mark under surveillance.
Ben tiptoed towards the bedroom door. Mark had reached the kitchen but hadn’t called out and probably thought the house was empty. Ben, in his socks, crept to the top of the stairs, listening to Mark rummaging in the kitchen. A pause. Silence. Footsteps. He was coming. Ben made it to his room in time without being seen. Mark stomped upstairs and prowled in Emma’s bedroom, opening drawers and cupboards. Collecting his stuff. Did this mean he’d be gone forever? It couldn’t come soon enough.
Ben didn’t trust Mark. Something was wrong about the man.
He took his phone from his pocket, set it to record video and held it to the door jamb, waiting. Mark emerged from the bedroom. Ben filmed him heading down the stairs, then followed when he heard Mark open the back door. He had stuff in the shed: tools, a tarpaulin and a tent. Ben hid behind the sofa in the front room.
Mark marched through the house, down the hallway and out the front door, which he left open. Moments later he returned. This time he sat in the kitchen, rustling paper. Ben sidled to the doorway. He lay flat on the floor and stretched out until his camera poked around the door. Mark swore and hurled stuff around as though he were looking for something important. Ben grew braver and peeked inside. Mark was wearing different clothes. Jeans and a suede jacket. Ben had never seen those. They must cost money. Money none of his mother’s friends ever possessed.
“Where the fuck is it?” Mark pulled files and folders out of the cupboard.
What had he lost? Ben remembered his mother and uncle talking about how Mark had two passports, in different names, and she hid them after that demo.
“Bitch has taken them,” Mark yelled at no one in particular. He hurled a cup against the wall, span around and saw Ben.
“Hey, come here. What are you doing home?”
Ben fled up the stairs. He slammed the door of his room but there was no lock. He fumbled with the camera, knowing what was coming. The phone needed time. Where? He hid it under the sheets, deep in his bed.
Mark burst in. “What did you do? You filmed me? Why are you here?”
“I live here."
“You should be in school."
“I’m off sick.”
Mark held his hands out, trying to look friendly. “It’s all right. Your mother knows I’m here."
That was a lie. She’d have said something. “She told me not to let anyone in."
“That doesn’t include me."
“I think it does.” Ben stared at Mark, holding his gaze.
Mark took a step closer. “Let me see your phone."
“It’s mine."
“Hand it over, or else."
“I’ll tell her, anyway."
“Give me the damned thing.” Mark scanned the room. He ransacked Ben’s work desk but found nothing so he turned to the bed. He peered underneath. He grabbed a pillow. Ben pulled at his jacket. Mark put a hand in his face and shoved him away. He yanked at the sheets, discovered the phone and held it up, triumphant.
Like an eight-year-old, Ben thought. “Give it back, it’s mine."
“Tough shit.” Mark scowled at him. Then he grinned. “I know your passcode.” He entered the numbers. “I watched you."
“Bastard.” Ben stood by helpless as Mark deleted the video, then threw the handset on the bed and stalked out of the room.
The front door slammed. The van’s engine rumbled into life. Ben watched from his bedroom window as Mark drove off. He checked his data. Had it had time? Yes. The film was saved to the cloud, to Ruby’s special storebin where no one would find it or delete it. Ever. Ben smiled to himself, pleased at the success of his latest piece of espionage. Mark thought he was clever. But he didn’t know shit.
Chapter 25
Whisky And Well Wishers
Tom Capgras clutched the whisky in one hand, swirling the single malt and sniffing deep of the tangy, musky flavours. He sat alone in a pub, propped up at the bar, with a collection of newspapers, a pint of ale and a snifter of Islay. He slouched on the barstool under the weight of indecision.
His attempt to follow the BMW biker had come to nothing. The man had disappeared: either he’d raced off at a speed that Tom couldn’t match. Or, more worryingly, the biker might have outsmarted him, and turned the tables once more.
Capgras glanced over his shoulder. Was he still being fo
llowed? He had a new phone, didn’t know how to live without one, and doubtless GCHQ would have already tapped it or hacked it or whatever they did. Perhaps they were listening through the mike, even now. Or recording him with his own camera.
He rolled whisky around his mouth, sloshing it into his cheeks and across his tongue before letting it slip down his throat. The pile of newspapers taunted him. He ought to be working, keeping up with events, looking for ideas. But there was only one story that interested him and it was the one he didn’t want to pursue. Yet he kept chasing it, though it led nowhere good. It lured him onto the rocks, towards danger and confrontations with the law, the state, and its various agents and representatives. That was not a fight he would win.
What to do? Warn Connor about the biker? But he’d made a solemn promise: “leave and don’t come back.” O'Loughlin didn’t want hear from him, not now, not ever. His choice.
Should he try to find this informant? That meant more danger. This wasn’t his war. Someone had chosen him for it: Albright, perhaps. Or the man he met under the bridge, with information about Apostle. Or whoever sent him that data disk. They hadn’t asked. Hadn’t thought about his wishes. Did they mean him well? Or did they plan to frame him, lead him into trouble and finish him once and for all?
He slugged a gulp of the Ardbeg. He was being paranoid. Seeing dangers and conspiracy behind every corner. That’s what dealing with state secret service nonsense got you. You ended up second guessing yourself at each turn, whirling around trying to make sense of it until your head spun and the dizziness took hold. Let go, he told himself, before you end up vomiting in the corner like a Saturday night drunk.
He washed the whisky down with a long draft of warm, flat English beer, smacking his lips and savouring the taste. Tom looked around the barroom. No one here seemed the kind to be following him, but how to tell for sure? He took the piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and unfolded it: Barbara Carruthers. Nothing to say who she was or why she mattered. She wouldn’t want to be found, so he’d have to approach carefully, put her at ease.
He glared at the beer pumps. There was a time a pub would have ashtrays: he could have set fire to this slip of paper, let it burn away and walk free. He folded it, tucked it into the pocket of his Belstaff jacket and drowned the last of his ale. Then he threw back the whisky, savouring the way it burned in his mouth and throat, abandoned the newspapers, unread, and headed into the sodium semi-darkness of a London side-street.
Chapter 26
Temptation
“I will not work with that woman.” Tom Capgras glared at his former news editor, the man who was still his de facto boss, since he was the only responsible adult in the British press who gave Capgras regular assignments. If he’d stayed in his job, Tom would at least have been protected by employment rights and a union. But as a freelance, it was take it or leave it.
If he left it, he wouldn’t get paid, and he needed the money. “Really? Angie Gossage? This is a broadsheet newspaper. I’m an investigative reporter. Serious politics. Crime. Proper stuff."
Fitzgerald held up a defensive hand to deflect the wrath. “The editor sees potential in her. She can do serious…”
“She’s an airhead. She does gossip."
“Give her a chance. And don’t be sexist."
“It’s not sexist. Men are airheads too."
Fitzgerald rubbed his chin. “You want this assignment or not? She’s working on it, either way."
“How did she get a position here?”
“She said it was your idea. The two of you, collaborating. Had my doubts, I must admit, but Shawn’s in favour.” Fitzgerald dropped his voice to a whisper. “She knows someone in his family. Pulled strings."
“Lowering the tone, isn’t it? What you gonna do? Give her a right-wing gossip column?”
Fitzgerald nodded towards the features desk where Angie was preening at a vanity mirror, checking her lipstick. “She asked for you.”
“I work alone, you know that."
Fitzgerald leaned forward and peered into Tom’s face. “You’ve been watching too many detective movies. You need to get out more, back on the job. Mix with other reporters. Move with the times."
“I do move…”
Fitzgerald slammed a pile of newspapers onto the desk. “Got to skim read these before afternoon conference. Take the assignment. The expenses alone will be worth your while. And two days away, by the sea. What could be better?”
“Anything,” Capgras muttered to himself.
He glanced across the newsroom. Angie was staring straight at him. She caught his eye and grinned. He smiled back, couldn’t help himself. Instinct. Damn it.
Tom looked again at the sheet of paper. He snorted with derision, but a voice nagged from the back of his head. Money was running out fast. He needed the work. The alternative was to find his own stories, but that was hit and miss, and might mean days or weeks of wasted effort. This made sense, even if it did involve working with Gossage.
“Be good,” Fitzgerald said as Tom set off across the newsroom.
“Wait until you see my expenses.” Tom headed for the desk where Angie Gossage sat with her feet on the table and a pencil skirt barely covering her thighs.
“We’re a team at last.” A skittish smirk scampered over her lips.
“They asked me to help you out. Show you the ropes."
“I’d thought you’d be assisting me. My researcher, filling in the background.”
“You mean getting the facts right?”
She waggled a pen at him. “Ah, but the story is in the emotion. The people. The human drama."
“Oh, god."
“We’ll make a great team. If you can keep up.” She swung her handbag off the desk and marched towards the exit, with a glance over her shoulder, and a sultry-sweet mocking simper in his direction.
Chapter 27
A Fall From Grace
Their interviews done for the day, their research completed, Tom and Angie booked into the hotel and collected their room keys.
Angie examined the hotel noticeboard. “There must be something to do in the evenings."
“Don’t you have a book to read?” He picked up his suitcases and marched up the carpeted stairs looking for 17b. Angie followed. She was next door.
“I can’t spend the evening in a broom cupboard,” she said as Tom put his key in the lock. “Let’s go to the pub. There’s one down the road.”
“Sorry, early night for me."
He waited twenty minutes, listening for sounds from next door. Then he crept out wearing his socks, carrying his shoes in his hand, easing the door closed. He made it to the top of the stairs.
“I knew it,” she said. “I’m coming with you."
Four pints and a whisky later, (three large white wines for Angie) they staggered out of the Golden Lion and wandered around the harbour, looking at the lights on the water and the boats bobbing on the high tide.
“I’m tired,” she announced.
“It’s the sea air."
She slipped her arm through his. He tensed. What was she playing at?
“I think we make a good team.”
He grunted.
“You don’t say much do you?” She jabbed his bicep with a boney finger.
“I’m drowsy is all.”
“You’re right, it’s late, we should go to bed.” She gripped his forearm tighter.
He walked in silence. Fearful. They made the lobby. “A nightcap?” she suggested. “There’s a hotel bar."
“Not for me."
“Okay then, bed it is.” She strode ahead of him up the stairs, her ass wiggling in tight jeans.
He fumbled with his key, finally got it in the lock and turned to say good night but she pounced, having chosen her moment, pushing him back into the room and advancing on him, eyes alive with adventure and naughtiness, humour and lust. Tom tried to fight it but the booze did its work, and she did have a nice body, and he was rarely sensible after a few drinks. An
d life is short. Sometimes, he reasoned, you have to let go.
And so they tumbled into bed and didn’t get as much sleep as Tom had planned. And when he woke at seven in the morning Angie was gone, and he longed to roll over and fall back into dreamland but he knew he couldn’t. He’d have to face her, work with her all day until the long drive back. And then the gossip would start. She’d tell everyone.
He cursed all the deities he didn’t believe in and held his head in his hands. Oh dear gods, what had he done?
Chapter 28
Doorstepping
Tom rang the doorbell and waited patiently, hands behind his back, trying to appear respectable and not intimidating, and definitely not as though here to sell anything. Or steal anything. Be polite, that was the trick. Put on your poshest voice. Act like a thoroughly upstanding member of society. Even if you were a journalist.
From inside the house he heard Barbara Carruthers approaching her front door. He had researched her but not found much to go on - she had studied maths at Cambridge, graduating with a double first. She moved from there into Whitehall, and a lifelong career as a civil servant. But there was nothing online about what she did, or who for, or when or how or where. She had retired three years previously, and now lived in a modest, detached home on the outskirts of Hove. She had never married, had no relatives as far as he could tell, no publications to her name. He pictured her as staid and sensible, respectable and intelligent, interested in local affairs, a member of several groups, societies and the like, on the committees, helping to run events. She doubtless came across as a self-effacing woman, practical and accomplished, even stubborn when she set her mind to getting something done.
Not someone who’d be given to undermining the security of the state. Or giving away its secrets to the press.
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