Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2)
Page 1
Contents
Title page
Other books by Simon J. Townley
Chapter 1 - Oversight
Chapter 2 - Undercover
Chapter 3 - Beneath the Surface
Chapter 4 - Between The Lines
Chapter 5 - The Unsleeping Eye
Chapter 6 - Under Surveillance
Chapter 7 - A Shepherd And His Flock
Chapter 8 - In The Dark
Chapter 9 - Temptress
Chapter 10 - Fair Warning
Chapter 11 - Avatars
Chapter 12 - Peaceful Protest
Chapter 13 - Home Alone
Chapter 14 - Pigs And Lipstick
Chapter 15 - Apostle
Chapter 16 - Surrounded
Chapter 17 - A Night In The Cells
Chapter 18 - Homecoming
Chapter 19 - A Second Opinion
Chapter 20 - In His Element
Chapter 21 - A Change Of Scenery
Chapter 22 - A Trip Up Town
Chapter 23 - Leap Frog
Chapter 24 - Spies
Chapter 25 - Whisky And Well Wishers
Chapter 26 - Temptation
Chapter 27 - A Fall From Grace
Chapter 28 - Doorstepping
Chapter 29 - Conclave
Chapter 30 - A Man Goes To See His Wife
Chapter 31 - A Face From The Grave
Chapter 32 - Cross And Examined
Chapter 33 - Too Much Information
Chapter 34 - Briefings
Chapter 35 - Daggers
Chapter 36 - Blackmail
Chapter 37 - Wiretapped
Chapter 38 - Verdicts
Chapter 39 - Pavements
Chapter 40 - Hard Questions
Chapter 41 - Dead Man's Handle
Chapter 42 - Assignation
Chapter 43 - Superiors
Chapter 44 - That Girl
Chapter 45 - The Lair
Chapter 46 - Editorial Conference
Chapter 47 - Injunction
Chapter 48 - Inquisition
Chapter 49 - Manacles
Chapter 50 - Kidnap
Chapter 51 - Alarm Bells
Chapter 52 - In Transit
Chapter 53 - Denial
Chapter 54 - Rogue
Chapter 55 - Inside
Chapter 56 - Outside
Chapter 57 - Off-Road
Chapter 58 - Clandestine Recording
Chapter 59 - An Offer Of Help
Chapter 60 - Cards On The Table
Chapter 61 - Prison Break
Chapter 62 - Under Observation
Chapter 63 - In Captivity
Chapter 64 - Bland Assurances
Chapter 65 - Bolthole
Chapter 66 - Common Ground
Chapter 67 - Forged Identity
Chapter 68 - A Secret Map
Chapter 69 - Inside Information
Chapter 70 - The Hidden Gate
Chapter 71 - The Dragon’s Hoard
Chapter 72 - The Monster’s Den
Chapter 73 - The Prison Van
Chapter 74 - To Rescue The Princess
Chapter 75 - Raise The Alarm
Chapter 76 - Torture Chamber
Chapter 77 - The Labyrinth
Chapter 78 - Inferno
Chapter 79 - Council Of War
Chapter 80 - A Skirmish
Chapter 81 - Proof Positive
Chapter 82 - Shadow
Chapter 83 - An Old Haunt With New Dangers
Chapter 84 - Bitter Revenge
Chapter 85 - The Clock Ticks
Chapter 86 - The Tide Turns
About the Author
Author's and publisher's notes
Cold Monsters
(No Secrets To Conceal)
The Capgras Conspiracy – Book Two
by
Simon J. Townley
Copyright © 2017 Simon Townley. All rights reserved.
simontownley.com
Published By Beardale Books
beardale.com
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This text uses British English spelling.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.
Other novels by Simon J. Townley
The Dry Lands
(book one of ‘A Tribal Song – Tales of the Koriba’)
In the Rattle of the Shaman’s Bones
(book two of ‘A Tribal Song – Tales of the Koriba’)
The Fire Within
(book three of ‘A Tribal Song – Tales of the Koriba’)
Doguar and the Baboons of War
Lost In Thought
Ball Machine
Outlivers
In The Wreckage (A Tale of Two Brothers)
Wild, Hugo Wilde
Monster Hunters of the Undermire
Blood Read (Publish and Be Dead)
(Book one of ‘The Capgras Conspiracy’)
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Chapter 1
Oversight
He was under surveillance, he felt it in his bones: a gazelle at the watering hole watched by eyes that never slept. As he crested the hill, Tom Capgras slipped the Norton into neutral and coasted down the narrow country lane, listening hard for the sound of engines. A glance in the wing mirror. Still nothing, but they would be professionals. He might never see them.
Capgras kicked the bike back into gear and leaned around a hairpin bend. As the road straightened out, he saw his destination – a rich man’s country bolt hole set in a dank hollow, protected from the wind off the moors and any threat of direct sunlight. No vampire lived here, but something worse: a Tory MP. A former minister, now a backbench power-broker, one of the ‘big beasts’ of the Conservative party and a pillar of the establishment, caught with a girl a third his age. A man at the centre of a press storm who had, against all odds and reason, asked to speak to Tom Capgras. By name. Alone.
In fact, he had insisted.
Tom turned into the driveway and pulled the Norton onto its stand. He hung his helmet and goggles over the handlebars and took stock of the scene. The obligatory Range Rover blocked the entrance to a single garage. A burbling stream ran through the garden, surrounded by the flaccid remains of last year’s gunnera. The building itself, three storeys of solid Dartmoor stone with a slate roof and a raft of outbuildings, was extravagant for a second home never mind a third.
Capgras stalked up the path and paused outside the front door listening to the breeze in the trees, the mournful cooing of wood pigeons and the distant hum of a diesel generator. Across the fields a bike engine rumbled into life – a modern machine, big and powerful. It roared off, beyond the range of hearing, to be replaced by the muffled thrum of an approaching car. He crouched behind a beech hedge that divided the front garden from the path. The browned leaves of Autumn clung to the branches, though tokens of Spring stirred in the buds.
A black Audi saloon with tinted windows rounded the corner and slowed. It turned into the driveway and parked next to his bike. A car door opened, clunked shut. Capgras peered over the hedge. A wom
an, with her back to him, nice hair, overdone, was staring at the Norton. She scanned the garden. Their eyes met, and he cursed himself for looking such a fool. She grinned, but not in a good way. She was laughing at him, and he couldn’t, in all honesty, blame her.
“Tom Capgras,” she bellowed, “get off my patch."
He knew Angie Gossage by reputation only. Her photo byline appeared most days in one of the more popular tabloids. Her gossip column was renowned for its wit, cunning and ferocity. Though not for its accuracy, and, if he remembered rightly, she had cost her paper dearly on a fair few libel writs.
She strode into the garden and advanced on him. “This is my exclusive.”
“We got the call. He asked for me by name."
“Someone’s pulling your leg.” She slung her leather handbag onto her shoulder. “Albright wouldn’t be seen dead speaking to that leftwing rag. He certainly wouldn’t speak to you.”
“I’m not sure you’d be his first choice. He never speaks to the tabloids unless there’s an election due."
She pouted at him, sticking her chest out. “We’re paying him. We own this. We’ve got the rights."
“He asked for me. I intend to knock on his door."
“It’s a free world,” she said. “But it’s me he’ll speak to. Money talks."
Did she believe James Albright would talk to a redtop? Or needed her sleazy cash? He gave a feint bow as if letting the lady through. “We’ll just have to see what happens."
She humphed in resignation and they marched together towards the front door. It should have opened by now, after all the noise they had made on their arrival. The man had better be at home. If this was a wild goose chase, Tom would have words with his news editor and make damn sure he inflated the expenses form.
Angie beat him to the doorbell. She gave him a sidelong smirk. He ignored it, pretending to gaze into the distance while his eyes, of their own accord, surveyed her anatomy, asking questions.
She was shorter than he expected. Prettier than her byline photo though several years older. She must be, what? Almost thirty – and still stuck on a celebrity gossip column. Angie tapped on the door with her fingertips. Tom leaned over her and delivered four sharp blows with his knuckles, loud enough to wake the dead.
Angie swore, fluently. “Five damn hours. Were you caught in those roadworks?”
“Sailed past. Motorbike, remember.”
She scowled at him, then leant on the doorbell. It dinged and donged relentlessly.
She rustled through her handbag for her phone, dialled and pressed it to her ear. Tom put his head to the letter-box. Inside a mobile screeched for attention. “He’s here. Or his phone is, at least."
“Not answering. You don’t think… All that pressure?”
Please no, not again. He had discovered enough suicides to last a lifetime. Besides, this man was rich and powerful. He had options, ways out. And that girl he was caught with… she was worth it. She’d even said nice things about him on camera, when the news crews tracked her down. Sadly for Albright, they’d found her in a swanky apartment paid for out of his MP’s expenses. Careless, that.
Tom yelled through the letter-box. “It’s Capgras here, the reporter. You asked to see me. I have an appointment."
Angie snorted with disdain. “I’ll have a gander around the back."
“Snooping?”
“Checking he’s all right."
“Breaking in, by any chance?”
She turned on her heels and headed through a side-gate. He followed – to keep an eye on her if nothing else, wondering why she wore a little black dress for a trip to the country. Did she plan to seduce Albright, or merely make him hope that she might?
She stood on tip-toes and peered through a window. Tom peaked over the top of her shiny dark hair at a kitchen, empty of people but full of chairs. Was Albright planning an impromptu cabinet meeting? Angie strode on. Tom tagged along. Don’t let her find anything, he told himself. She’ll hide it, lie, do whatever it takes to get the story.
Angie rattled a set of French windows then pressed her face to the glass. “Oh god.” She turned away, gagging as though about to be sick. A touch squeamish for a tabloid hack.
Tom stared inside. The man he had come to interview lay in a pool of blood with a large, very fatal hole in his head and a shotgun lying at a crazy angle on the floor. Capgras banged and clattered on the door. Get it open. Albright was clearly dead, but he still felt the need to react, to do something.
Angie was one step ahead of him. She had her phone out.
“Police?”
“In a minute,” she said, waving at him to be quiet.
She was calling her newsroom. Tom shook his head at the follies of the world and kicked the doors in frustration. That did the trick. They flew open and he rushed to the corpse of the Right Honourable James Albright MP, RIP. He didn’t bother to check for a pulse. No one survived that wound. Angie shuffled behind him. She’d come for a closer look, but soon regretted it. She coughed and gagged, a hand over her mouth.
“First dead body?”
She mumbled something incoherent and rushed off to the garden from where, moments later, the sound of her retching made his own stomach churn.
Capgras took in the scene. Any decent human being would treat such a death with respect, even reverence. Some might say a prayer over the body. Others would talk solemnly in hushed tones, wondering how and why and what would the family do? But Tom Capgras and Angie Gossage were reporters, journalists to the core. And he wasn’t about to be scooped by that woman.
He took out his phone, called the news-desk. “Jon? Albright’s dead. Shotgun to the mouth. It’s a mess. Angie Gossage is here, so no exclusive. I can’t help that. Get a headline on the website. Yes, I’m certain. I’ll send a photo if it helps. Five minutes.” He needed to write copy.
First, though, do the decent thing. He phoned the police, gave his details, the identity of the victim, and an outline of what they would find when they got here. The control room tried to keep him on the line with stupid questions.
“Can’t hear you, poor reception out here.” Capgras hung up.
They were in the sticks, and the roads were slow. Police would take thirty minutes to get here, at least. He could rattle off an in-depth backgrounder in that time. But all he needed for now was four breezy paragraphs. He’d put the copy together, then have a rummage around, see what he could find.
Angie appeared at the French windows, still looking pale, though the phone in her hand suggested she meant business. “I can offer money for the exclusive."
“Too late, I called it in."
“Your loss. I’ll take a look…”
“Don’t touch anything."
“Who put you in charge?”
“It’s a crime scene."
“It’s suicide, silly.” She sauntered across the room, giving the corpse a wide berth, her hips swaying. He watched her, wondering whether to follow. Best to keep an eye on that one… but the story was in here. He sensed it.
Albright was not just any old MP. He was a former minister for security, once spoken of as a potential party leader. And rich as Croesus. Why kill himself now, with two journalists on their way to see him? To go out in a blaze of glory? Or embarrass those he felt had betrayed him?
Tom stared at the man’s shattered skull. Did he jump, or was he pushed?
Angie’s stilettos clomped on the wooden boards upstairs as if she were busy ransacking the bedrooms. Typical, find something salacious. All the juicy details will be under the bedsheets or close by. There would no peace for James Albright, not even in death. Tom knelt beside the body and slipped a hand into the suit pockets, checking for a suicide note. Nothing there. He scanned the desk, checked the drawers. Angie’s footsteps had gone quiet, but a bed creaked as though she were sitting on it. Had she found something intriguing to read?
Capgras photographed the shotgun, the way the body lay, the general scene, just in case. Not for publication. F
or his own records. He was not a man to take things at face value, knowing from experience that the world doesn’t work that way. This was too neat. He sensed something out of joint.
He checked the ground floor and found the gun cabinet on a wall in the boot room. It had been left open. Two shotguns remained. The third, presumably, was the one in Albright’s office – the one that had been used to blow his brains out.
His phone rang. It was Jon Fitzgerald on the news-desk, wanting his holding copy, fast.
“With you soon. Some things to check. It looks wrong here. Can’t put my finger on it."
“File the damn copy, then have a poke about,” Fitzgerald said.
“I’m not snooping. This is a crime scene,” Tom said, hoping his news editor took the hint. Their call would be recorded, monitored, poured over by eager eyes in GCHQ.
Capgras hung up, returned to the office and stepped over the body. He scrutinised the desk once more. A leather writing pad served as home to a fountain pen and a neat pile of blank paper. It had slid across the desk at an angle as if Albright had slumped onto it as he fell. A slip of paper poked out of the corner. A clue? He should leave it. Tell the police. Disturb nothing.
In the distance, the rattle of a diesel engine suggested a van approached along the narrow country lane. They couldn’t be here. Not yet. He reached for the paper, unfolded it.
‘Tom Capgras,’ it said, followed by his phone number and home address.
His home address.
Underneath was a date. Three weeks ago. That made no sense. And under that, one word. ‘Apostle.’
It was a word Tom Capgras had heard before. Recently. Written on a note very like this one. A cryptic note, delivered in the post, and accompanied by a USB data disk full of files and computer code and techie mumbo-jumbo. ‘Apostle,’ the note had said, followed by one word: ‘Help.’