Ben clasped his arms tight around Tom’s waist. “I don’t like it."
“It’s safe enough, if you take it slow.” With both of them on board, the suspension struggled and he might easily bottom out on a hefty bump. Tom set off downhill heading for a proper road in the distance. He was slowing, ready to make a turn left, when a BMW R1200 raced past on the highway. The rider glanced towards them. His engine slowed as he braked hard. Naylor, no doubt about it.
And there was no outrunning that bike on the road or off: it was the two wheel equivalent of a rally car. An idea presented itself and he grimaced at the thought. But there was no other way. Capgras turned the Norton around and headed back the way he had come, standing on the footrests and allowing the bike to buck and jump beneath him. “Hold on tight,” he yelled over his shoulder to Ben. “When I say jump, get clear. As far and as fast as you can.” He rode hard, head down, full throttle, heading back the way they come, towards the only weapon he had in his arsenal. No braking or slowing, not now. This was a race, and the winner took all. He had to lure Naylor into the trap.
The BMW gained on them. Capgras heard the roar of the engine getting close. As they headed up the slope the Norton struggled to keep its speed. As it slowed he had to slip the clutch, no choice. The BMW pulled alongside and Naylor jabbed an order with his finger, telling Capgras to pull over. The BMW edged in front and swerved across their tracks, playing games with them, trying to throw them off or crash them into a ditch. Naylor held up a gun, pointing it at Ben. Tom kept going, heading for the beech tree up ahead.
The BMW had better handling and acceleration. Better brakes. Better tyres. It was better, all round. But the rider was reckless, and over-confident, relying on adrenalin and machismo, revelling in the speed and the knowledge he would surely win. Not thinking enough. Not cautious.
They raced to the top of the track, heading for the lip of the quarry. Capgras applied the brake, hard, slid the front wheel, and the boy was thrown clear, landing in bramble as the Norton shuddered and juddered. Tom leapt from the bike and grabbed at dirt and grass, anything to hold to. He slid and bumped and threw out a desperate hand, grasped a tree root and clung to it, his feet dangling over the edge.
His beloved Norton 650SS sailed into the fresh air. The handlebars twisted and turned, as if she wanted to give him one last, forlorn, despairing stare, like a dog kicked by its master. Then it fell.
The brakes on the BMW locked, the front wheel hit the exposed roots of a beech tree, and both bike and rider somersaulted into the open expanse of air. They floated, hovering for an instant, like cartoon villains on a Saturday morning matinee, their dastardly plans foiled one more time before finally they lost their skirmish with gravity and plunged onto the unforgiving rock of the quarry floor far below.
Chapter 81
Proof Positive
They tramped on foot through the woods to the outskirts of a village. Tom left Ben hiding in the trees while he moved closer. He identified a house, on its own with lights off, no one home but a Mercedes saloon in the driveway. After breaking in through a back window, he took the electronic ignition from the shelf by the front door and settled into the driver’s seat with a wry grin on his face. He’d rather have his bike, gods bless her, but this would do for now. Tom mouthed a silent apology to the car’s owner, vowing to return and make amends, if he ever could, then drove to the woods where they had arranged to meet.
The boy emerged from the undergrowth and scurried over, getting in the front beside Tom. “Nice car, comfy seats."
“Full tank of petrol, too. It’ll get us there."
“Where?”
“Meet up with Mark, and your mother."
“She’s out of prison?”
“Should be, by now.” If all went well, though he kept that thought to himself.
“We’re going home?” Ben asked.
“We can’t. Not yet. We have to keep you safe."
“Where then?”
“Cornwall. You’ll like it. Little place I know. That’s where we’re meeting them. It’s all arranged."
Ben slumped into the plush leather seat and played with the controls on the air conditioning and music system.
“You should settle down, get some sleep."
“I’m not tired."
“Look in the glove compartment, see if there’s a map. We need the motorway."
They drove west down the M4, south along the M5. As darkness fell, Tom pulled into services so they could use the toilets and get food. Once they had eaten he headed into a shop to pick up snacks and sweets for the journey.
“We should get a new phone,” Ben said. “Call Mum."
“Not now,” Tom said.
“Why not?”
“Too risky. We’ve made a plan. They’ll be there. Don’t worry."
“I need a phone to get on my cloud backup,” Ben said as they walked back to the car.
“It can’t be that urgent."
“There’s something I want you to hear."
“What’s that?” Tom pressed the electronic fob to open the car.
“A recording I made. My father, talking with his boss. I was on the back seat, they thought I was asleep. They were talking about you, and Mum, and all the things they were going to do. And about that man, the politician who died, the one you found."
Tom leant on the car roof. “Albright? What did they say?”
“Shepherd killed him. He didn’t mean to, but he had to stop him making a call or something. Gun went off. Then the other man did the rest."
“Naylor? They used the name?”
“Yes, that’s him."
“And you can remember all this? It’s important,” Tom said. “Every word. Write it down."
“I don’t need to, I recorded it."
Tom swung the door open and slid onto the seat. “But they took your phone. They have the recording."
Ben sat on the passenger side. “That’s the point. They don’t know it exists. They won’t look for it. And they can’t delete it, anyway. There’s this special backup Ruby created."
Tom started the engine and pulled out of the parking bay, heading for the slip road back onto the motorway. “They still have your phone. We can’t get it off them."
“We don’t need to.” Ben sounded exasperated. “Like I said, it’ll be on my cloud account. It’s what you need, isn’t it? They said they killed that man. They admitted they were doing things to Mum, to keep you quiet. You can use it in your newspaper. Don’t you see? Don’t you see?”
Tom glanced at the boy and grinned. “Yes Ben, I think I understand. We’ve got them."
“So I get another phone?”
“Sure, don’t worry."
“When?”
“At the next services."
“And I can call Mum?”
“That’ll have to wait. Beside, they’ll be waiting for us. It’ll be a surprise. You don’t want to spoilt that do you?”
“Maybe…”
“Trust me, Ben. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Chapter 82
Shadow
Bob Shepherd glanced once more at the laptop that lay in the passenger seat of his car. The drone had locked onto the stolen Mercedes and followed it at a height of five hundred feet. They would never see it. Never hear it. Never know their escape was betrayed and their every move logged.
Still no word from Naylor, but Shepherd was past caring. Perhaps he’d seen the last of the man. It couldn’t come too soon.
Capgras was clearly heading for Plymouth. Maybe into Cornwall. No doubt he had a bolt-hole where he imagined they would be safe, beyond the reaches of the security establishment. That was naïve.
Shepherd cruised in the outside lane of the dual carriageway, passing trucks and cars, keeping pace with Capgras and Ben. He patted the gun in his pocket. Soon he’d get his boy back. Then he’d deal with the journalist once and for all. If he could retrieve the data, all well and good. That would put him in good standing with Sir
Leo. And if not, then so be it. Let the story come out. It would damage DarkReach, but he had other options. He could slip away, into his other role as an upstanding policeman, one of the Met’s finest. Once the killing was done.
Chapter 83
An Old Haunt With New Dangers
They crossed the Tamar by ferry and headed for the fishing port of Looe, a place Tom knew well, though none of the memories were good. He drove through the town, past the rubble where the hotel once stood. His lover, Kiera Roche, had blown it up to fake her own death. He drove on, into the darkness of the country lanes, heading for the deserted holiday cottage of the late and dearly departed author Arthur Middleton. One of Kiera’s many victims.
It was the ideal spot to meet Mark and Emma. There was no telephone, no neighbours to get nosey. No reason for GCHQ to have the place bugged. And it was close to Plymouth, from where a ferry would take them to Brittany.
He glanced towards the looming presence of the ocean. Lights from a container ship were the only clue as to where the sea ended and the sky began. Was Kiera still out there on her yacht, he wondered, running wild and free? For a moment he considered trying to find her. Stupid. The woman was too dangerous to have around. She had a nasty habit of murdering people who got in her way.
He kept driving, peering forward to make out the bends in the narrow road. Raindrops teemed down the windscreen, lashed by the wipers and the wind coming off the Channel. Ben stirred. He’d been asleep since they passed Exeter. The boy sat up and stared at the blackness. “Are we nearly there?”
“A mile or so."
“Then we’ll see Mum?”
If Mark had done his job. Tom said nothing.
“Are we going to live here?”
“We’re off to France."
“For a holiday?”
“Of sorts."
“Will I have to go to school?”
“Someday, yes."
They were close now. Tom slowed the car and parked outside the cottage, isolated and alone on the edge of a small hamlet. The place was dark and appeared empty. All the same, he left Ben in the Mercedes and skirted around back, going in through the same window he’d jemmied last time. It hadn’t been repaired. He lifted himself up and dropped into the house.
It was just as he remembered it, right down to the family photo on the writing desk. He called Emma’s name, then Mark’s but there was no reply. What had delayed them?
He fetched Ben from the car and found the fuse box under the stairs, pulled a switch and a light came on in the kitchen. It was a risk, because anyone passing on the road might see them, but the house was cold and damp and the only heating was an electric fire in the living room.
“Mum isn’t here,” Ben said.
“She will be."
“Why can’t we call?”
“It isn’t safe.”
“Is she with Mark? She doesn’t like him any more. I never liked him. He tells lies."
“We need his help. Once we’re away from here, she’ll get rid of him. Be nice, for now. It’s important, okay?”
Ben scowled but didn’t argue, which was as good as you could hope for from a member of the Capgras clan.
Tom found a gas canister out back. He hooked it up and there was enough fuel to get the cooker going. He put the fish and chips he had bought in Plymouth under the grill to warm while Ben explored the house, yelling from distant rooms about stuff he’d discovered.
“Come and eat.” Tom dished the food onto plastic plates and they sat on the bedraggled chairs, huddled by the two-bar electric heater, talking over the places they would visit in France, Spain, and Italy. Tom let the boy dream, picturing a future full of carefree adventures and excitement. The reality would be harder.
Ben paused his eating, a chip raised to his mouth, his face screwed up and cocked to one side. “It’s a car. Must be Mum."
“I can’t hear it."
“It’s stopped now."
“They might be looking for the place.I’ll go check.” Tom took the last of his chips with him, scoffing them off the plate with his fingers as he walked down the short path to the garden gate. He peered into the darkness. No headlights, no sound of a car. Ben was at the window in the front room. Capgras opened the gate and strolled down the road. He shouted Mark’s name, then Emma’s. Nothing. False alarm. He turned back, expecting to see Ben’s face in the window but the boy had gone.
He headed back inside. “Ben. Where are you? Stop messing around.”
The boy didn’t answer.
“What are you doing? Where are you? Answer me."
The door to the kitchen swung open and Ben stepped through first, with Bob Shepherd close behind, a gun in his hand. Capgras was no expert on firearms, but this one looked as if it meant business. Shepherd waggled the barrel, gesturing Capgras into the front room.
As they came through the door, Ben tried to wriggle free from Shepherd’s arm around his neck. The man tripped Ben and pushed him inside. The boy yelped with pain.
Tom fought the urge to smack Shepherd in the face with the hardest punch he could muster. “For god’s sake, don’t hurt him."
“He’s my son. I’ll decide…”
Ben kicked out at Shepherd’s shins. “You’re not my father. I don’t want a father. Not one like you. You lied to my mother. I hate you."
Shepherd put a hand on the boy’s forehead and pushed him away. “Shut up. I’ve come to save you, don’t forget that. I’m risking everything for you. Show some gratitude."
Tom glared at Shepherd, daggers in his eyes. “You can’t make a child love you by threatening them. Doesn’t work."
“Mind your own business.” Shepherd raised the gun as though he meant to use it as a club with which to beat Capgras around the head.
Tom didn’t flinch. Bring it on. It would be a chance to overpower the man. But Shepherd thought better of it, and lowered the gun, trained it on Tom’s chest.
“You’re going to tell me how to disable that dead man’s handle."
“No,” Tom said. “I’m not."
“Do it, or I’ll kill you."
“You’ll kill me anyway."
“There’s always torture."
“I’m sure you’d enjoy it, but you’d never be certain I was telling the truth, so what good would it do you? Or me? You’d have to eliminate me after that, so I might as well lie.” Tom glanced at his watch. “Three hours to go. If I don’t log in, the story is published on my blog and sent to every media organisation you’ve never heard of, and then some. They’ll eat this stuff up in Brazil and India, Australia and Russia, the States too. They’ll see the parallels. What happens here happens there. And when this comes out, everything will change. Any crime you commit now might land you in prison. Best to start walking the straight and narrow. You could still come out of all this with your life and freedom, a pension perhaps. It’s more than you deserve."
Shepherd’s face spoke of murderous rage mixed with a fear that gnawed at his intestines. “Outside. Out the back. Move."
“Why?”
“Because I said so."
“What happens out back?”
Ben pulled on Shepherd’s jacket. “Leave him alone. Don’t hurt him."
Shepherd pushed the boy away. “Stay in here.”
Ben sprawled to the floor. He made a movement with his hand. Shepherd didn’t see it, but Tom did. It was part of their signing code. Ben was telling Tom he’d bring help.
Shepherd pressed his gun into Tom’s face. “Move, now. Or die here."
“Here, out there, what’s the difference? I’ll still be dead."
“What about Ben?” Shepherd said. “You don’t want him to see this."
“Then don’t do it."
Ben leapt to his feet, pushed past his father and down the hall. His feet pounded on the stairs as he ran towards the bedrooms.
“Problem solved,” Shepherd said with a grin. “But you’re still going outside. Walk.” His hand trembled.
Capgras moved t
owards the kitchen. He shot glances to either side, looking for a weapon, a knife, anything to use. Better to go down fighting than executed. But there was nothing to hand and he was out of ideas. What would they do in the movies? How would the all-action hero escape from this?
He opened the door and Shepherd pushed him through. Tom staggered a few steps across the paving slabs and onto the patch of weeds that once had been a lawn. Should he run? He wouldn’t get far. Better to smash Shepherd in the face. There was only one other option: talk his way out of it. “How did it feel, when you murdered Albright?”
“Shut up."
“We have your confession on tape."
“Lies."
“You were in your car, talking with Sir Leo, Ben was in the back. You thought he was asleep, but he recorded it."
Shepherd paused, his temples screwed into a frown, visible by the misty light through the kitchen window. “We have his phone. We took it from him."
“It saved the recording to the cloud. The voices are clear. It will hold up in court. Kill me, and it goes public."
“And if I don’t kill you?”
“Then we do a deal…” Tom froze. Ben had appeared in the doorway, holding the shotgun that Arthur Middleton kept hidden under the bed. Shit. He’d forgotten about that. There were cartridges. Would Ben know how to load them? Could he lift the gun? The recoil would knock him off his feet. It might break his collar bone, or his neck. Or worse. Capgras made a frantic gesture with his hand, telling Ben to drop the weapon.
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