Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2)

by Simon J. Townley

  But the handwriting was different, he was sure of that.

  What was the link? What and how and why? Was this why Albright wanted to see him?

  Cars pulled up outside. He rushed to the hallway, checked through the window. Police. Uniforms in a marked van and detectives in an unmarked car. Ten minutes since he’d called it in. Impossible. How did they get here so fast? This was the middle of nowhere. Forty minutes from Exeter and the nearest major police station. Something wasn’t right. “Angie, get down here, coppers."

  “Don’t be silly,” she shouted from above.

  “Look out the window."

  She clomped in her high heels. How did she drive wearing those things? Or walk, for that matter?

  Capgras hurried back to the office and folded the paper. They would find it. It was evidence. With his name on it. That was no crime. All the same…

  It had been hidden out of sight. Why? From prying eyes? Whose eyes? If Albright didn’t want it found, why not destroy it? Was his mind too messed up, or was someone here – someone who had killed him and made it appear like suicide? Had Albright died, protecting Tom Capgras?

  It was important. It pointed to murder. He should leave it. A fist hammered on the front door. Capgras put one foot over the corpse so he could reach the desk and slip the paper back. But his fingerprints were on it. Damn. Keep it. No, leave it. Take it, don’t get mixed up in this…

  A police battering ram smashed open the front door. The coppers surged in, and found him, legs splayed standing over the dead body of an MP. A plain clothes detective stood in the doorway, glanced down at the corpse, up at Capgras.

  “Hello officer,” Tom said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Chapter 2

  Undercover

  Mark Rockford took the joint from his girlfriend Emma as she passed it around the kitchen table, put it to his mouth, screwed up his eyes and savoured a long, slow drag which, despite appearances, he did not inhale. As he handed it to his right, he glanced at Emma’s son Ben who sat in the corner, a book on his knee but eyes fixed on Mark.

  The boy unnerved him.

  Nine eco-activists had gathered in Emma’s kitchen to discuss the morning’s events, including the arrests and police brutality, and to plan for the days ahead. The power plant was due to go operational. Stopping that from happening seemed futile. It was built. Did they expect it to disappear? Empty gestures were a waste of time and Mark wondered sometimes why the others couldn’t see that. Direct action was more effective but there were limits to how much advice he should give.

  “It’s coming on,” Emma called out, interrupting Sally, the leader of the group, as she expounded on their aims for the next outing. The group swivelled to watch the news bulletin. The television was tucked in a corner, almost out of sight, on the far side of the room. Emma lunged for the remote and turned up the sound. A few seconds of footage flashed across the screen. “There you are.” She nudged Mark.

  It was him all right: post-punk hippie, long hair swept back into a ponytail, a sheen of grime on his skin and prominent tattoos on his forearms. Combat trousers and black zip-up fleece with grey cotton t-shirt. His face flashed on the screen, in a headlock, being hauled away by two uniformed officers. He touched his ribs, bruised from the punches.

  The coverage cut to the talking head of a senior policeman, denouncing the tactics of the protestors and their violence. The activists in Emma’s kitchen howled their derision and drowned out the man.

  A newsflash rolled across the bottom of the screen: unconfirmed reports of the death of the MP James Albright. The presenters cut away from the coverage of the power plant to bring viewers the latest breaking news, their voices shrill with excitement. Two newspaper websites were reporting Albright’s apparent suicide, though police had made no comment. Nothing from Conservative central office.

  Albright. Dead. Shit. What did that mean? Mark could barely hear the coverage with the others talking over it. Emma reached for the remote and turned off the sound. They didn’t care about the fate of a Tory MP. Who did? Though it was news, all right. The man’s affairs had been in the papers for days. It was suicide, everyone would see it that way. But what did this change?

  Emma pushed his arm to get his attention. “Are you listening?”

  “Yeah, sure, what was it?”

  “You with us mate?” asked one of the group. “You up for tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’ll drive."

  “You always drive."

  “It’s my van. I’ll stay with the vehicle this time."

  “Don’t fancy getting arrested? At least you didn’t get charged last time."

  “Mark never gets held,” Sallie said. “Didn’t you know? He’s the teflon kid. The charges don't stick."

  “You got a clean record?”

  Mark shrugged it off, implying there were dark secrets too terrible to reveal. He glanced across the room once more. Ben was still watching. Did he ever stop with those Midwitch cuckoo eyes?

  The boy unnerved him.

  Mark passed the joint around the table without taking a drag. “Gonna check the oil and stuff,” he told them and headed for the door, his phone in his hand before he’d even made the hallway.

  Chapter 3

  Beneath the Surface

  Tom Capgras watched the detective’s expression as Angie shimmied down the stairs in her stilettos and little black dress. Her feet appeared first, followed by those shapely legs and alluring hips designed to make a man dream. To make him talk.

  The detective seemed unimpressed. He knew the score. He’d seen it all before. Family man by the looks of him, solid and honest, unlikely to fall for the femme fatale routine, or the flutter of eyelashes. “My colleague here was using the bathroom,” Tom said. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “Go easy on her. She’s not seen this kind of thing before."

  The detective frowned, turned his head towards Capgras. “You have, I take it?”

  “And worse."

  “You’re press?”

  Capgras nodded.

  “Which paper? You together?”

  “No…” Tom and Angie said, in unison, both of them a fraction too fast.

  Angie, who had reached the bottom rung, held out her business card, almost preening.

  “I’ve heard of you,” the copper said, though his voice gave little away – was that good or bad? “I’ll have to ask both of you to step this way.”

  He led them to the kitchen, flashed his badge and gave his name as DC Roebuck. “Open your bags, pockets...."

  Angie snorted. “You have no right…”

  “We found one of you standing over a dead body.” Roebuck gave Capgras a meaningful stare. “The other was searching the premises. I’d co-operate, if I were you."

  “My editor will never allow this,” Angie said. “Haven’t you heard about freedom of the press?”

  “This is a crime scene,” Roebuck said. “A prominent politician…”

  “Who took his own life...”

  “Not for you to decide."

  “Angie...” Tom knew that from bitter experience that browbeating policemen rarely turned out well and the more fuss you made about being searched, the more thorough it would be. Play along, and this could go smoothly. “Take it easy. Man’s doing his job, that’s all.”

  “I will not consent to a search.” Angie gripped her bag to her chest. A dead-giveaway.

  Roebuck told them both to wait headed outside, presumably for orders.

  “Quick thinking,” Angie said, “that bit about using the bathroom, feeling sick. Clever. I owe you one."

  “You didn’t take anything?”

  “Of course not."

  “They’ll search us. Ditch it now, while you’ve got the chance."

  “I won’t let them."

  “Reckon?”

  “You give up easy."

  “You pick the wrong fights."

  The door opened and Roebuck leaned his head into the kitchen. “Are you Capgras?”r />
  “As it happens, yes."

  “Shit.” Roebuck pulled the door shut with a bang.

  Angie smirked at Tom. “Your reputation goes before you."

  “Happens a lot."

  “Must come in handy as a crime reporter, being hated by the police."

  “You’d be surprised."

  The door opened again and Roebuck brought a uniformed officer with him. He left the man to watch over them.

  “I don’t think they trust you,” Angie said.

  “They’re policemen. They don't trust anyone. Not even their own kind.” He glanced at the copper, who went on staring at the far wall as if these two people in front of him didn’t exist.

  Angie sat at the table and shuffled her leather bag on her lap. She was nervous, smelt of guilt and had given away her secret. She’d taken something.

  Capgras gave her a pointed stare. She needed to get rid of it, now. “They’ll let us go soon enough. We haven’t tampered with anything. Co-operate, allow them to search you. They’ll be fine, you’ll see. So long as they don’t find anything. Which they won’t."

  She scowled at him, her eyebrows twitching with annoyance. She wasn’t about to give it up – whatever it was.

  Roebuck reappeared with a police woman. “This is how it’s gonna be. You turn out your pockets and bags. We won’t ask for a full search. But we need to confirm you didn’t pick up anything while you were here. Inadvertently, of course. You show me any photos on your cameras and phones and if there’s nothing untoward, you get to keep them."

  Angie pouted at the man. “What right have you…”

  “State secrets. Mr Albright was on powerful committees. I’m acting under orders. You want some advice? Do it now before the scary bunch arrive from London. They’re on their way.”

  Angie made eye contact. Tom nodded at her, telling her to comply. “We’ve nothing to hide,” he said. “The place is how we found it. We were here for interviews which were scheduled. You can check with our newsrooms."

  “It’s all right, you’re not under suspicion. Not of anything that serious."

  Capgras placed his iPhone on the table and emptied his pockets. Should he give them the note from Albright’s desk? It would look worse if they searched him and found it. Then again, it was only a piece of paper with his own name on it. Nothing to link it to Albright, other than the handwriting which they were unlikely to recognise. He put it with the rest and handed Roebuck his brown leather messenger back with his reporter’s notebook and laptop. He used a clean computer with minimal data on it for eventualities such as this. They’d find little on his phone either, other than the photos taken today. They might delete them, but they were already saved to the cloud where he could retrieve them later. And the coppers probably didn’t know that.

  Angie grasped her handbag to her chest. “This is an intrusion on press freedom. I’m calling my editor. You don’t mess with us. This is political."

  “Angie, just let him look."

  “Never. If I’m not under arrest, they can’t search me."

  Roebuck rolled his eyes, took Tom’s gear and left the room to call his boss once more.

  The uniformed officers stood by the doorway. There was no way out.

  Tom shielded his mouth with his hand. “What did you take?” he whispered.

  “Nothing."

  “Truth?”

  “A diary."

  “Hand it over. They’ll find it anyway."

  “Never."

  Capgras pulled out a chair. It screeched in protest as he dragged it across the stone floor. He flomped onto it, hoping he’d get out of here before darkness fell. It was a long drive home and he was tired already.

  Angie sat opposite him, calling her newsroom, agitated and talking too much. Capgras stared out the window, writing his story in his head.

  Roebuck came back a few minutes later and read Angie her rights. Her face turned pale. The uniforms moved in, using body language alone to coerce her to her feet. Roebuck took her bag. She clung to it. He pulled it from her and she relented. He held out a hand for her phone. She cursed impressively for such a well manicured women and was escorted from the room.

  Roebuck turned to Tom and put his things on the kitchen table. He held up Albright’s note. “What’s this?”

  “What does it look like? My name and contact details."

  “What does ‘Apostle’ mean?”

  What indeed? “It’s personal. Answer to a crossword clue. It involves a wager with my brother and a colleague at work who..."

  Roebuck waved him to silence. He put the note down on the table with the rest of the stuff.

  He paused, as though thinking hard. It was balanced on a knife edge. Say nothing. Tom held his breath.

  “You’re free to go,” Roebuck said, at last. “Drive safely."

  “If you need anything…”

  “We’ll be in touch for a full statement. Don’t go anywhere."

  “I’ll be at home, or the offices of The Monitor.” Capgras scurried for his bike. Get the hell out of there before they change their minds. He had a story to file and with Angie under arrest he’d get a partial exclusive. She hadn’t had time to write much copy. He could go into details no one else would know. And not just a tale of celebrity gossip either but a proper Tom Capgras story, hinting at subterfuge, mysterious deaths and powerful forces at work below the surface of things. A tale of murder made to look like suicide.

  But who? And how? And why? Who gave the order? Who pulled the trigger? Or shoved the barrel into Albright’s mouth?

  He kicked the bike into life and the engine thrumbed beneath him. He opened her up and hit the road, glad to have the wind in his face once more, and the chance to put distance between himself and the long arm of the law.

  Chapter 4

  Between The Lines

  Tom Capgras strode into the offices of The Monitor, a major national broadsheet newspaper, waving to colleagues, helping himself to free coffee, and acting as if he owned the place. Other freelancers would approach the altar of the news with reverence and humility, bringing offerings and dreaming of salvation. But Tom had done his time, paid his dues and was part of the furniture. He was here more often than most of the staff reporters, closer to the people that mattered and consulted more often. The investigations teams relied on him, because when he got his teeth into something, he didn’t let go.

  Jon Fitzgerald, news editor, span around in his chair as Capgras approached. “I don’t know how you do it Tom. If you keep finding dead bodies, folk will talk.”

  Capgras slid into a chair, face-to-face with his old mentor, and gave him a meaningful stare.

  Fitzgerald fumbled with his glasses. “What this time?”

  “You remember I wrote ‘suicide’ in the holding copy….”

  Fitzgerald finally got his bifocals under control. He put them on his knee. “Not again."

  Tom would be the first to admit that he had history – a habit of refusing to take suicides at face value and yelling for all the world that this must be murder. “It’s a possibility.”

  “Evidence? Motive? Who would want to kill Albright?”

  “His party chairman?”

  “That’s what I call a hardline whip."

  “Why did he ask for me? Why this paper? He never talks to us. I’ve not met him, or written about him. We have no links."

  Fitzgerald shrugged. “He insisted."

  “Did you record that conversation? It might give me a clue”

  “I’ll bung it on an email. Listen to it when you get home. Go and rest. We’ve got all the Albright copy we need for today.”

  Capgras ignored the advice, found an empty room and set the recording running. It began with pleasantries.

  “I want to tell my side of things,” Albright said, “But not to just anyone. Send me Capgras."

  “Why him?” Fitzgerald said.

  “This is all messed up, isn’t what it seems. Can I talk to him?”

  “Not
right now, no."

  “They’ve set me up. They’re playing games.” Albright sounded agitated. The pressure had been getting to the man. “Believe nothing. Get me Capgras. We have important things to discuss."

  “Can I tell him what this is about? Adultery and gossip are not his kind of story."

  “I'll explain in person. Nothing more on the phone. Tell him tomorrow, eleven sharp, my house in Devon."

  The phone went dead, the recording ended. Not much to go on. The man sounded paranoid: all the more evidence for suicide. Capgras packed up his laptop and headed to Fitzgerald’s desk. “Jon, I’ve got a hunch on this one. Will you back me?”

  “With what?”

  “An investigation?”

  “Budgets are tight."

  “Something’s going on. Trust me."

  “Can’t do it."

  The Editor could swing it, though. “Ask upstairs."

  “I’ll mention it in conference."

  “Let me. I’ll talk them through it."

  “Not this time. You want work that pays? Give me a colour piece on the protests at Aylthrop."

  “The power plant?”

  “Right up your alley. Corporate power, environmental damage. It’s more important than a dead Tory.”

  A door opened on the far side of the newsroom. The editor-in-chief, Shawn Milikan, roaming his savannah. This was his chance. Go straight to the top. Jon wouldn’t like it, but he had to try. “I’ll think about it.” Capgras snaked through the labyrinth of desks, charting a route to cut off Milikan.

  The man was skinny, on the verge of being scrawny, with black-rimmed glasses and a schoolboy haircut.

  “I’ve got a favour to ask.” Capgras made his pitch, explained his suspicions.

  “Run it by Jon."

  “He’s worried about money. This is big."

  “I can’t see it. Obvious suicide. Unless the police say different."

  “Unlikely."

  “Well, there we are."

  “But…” He could swing this, change it all. But what did ‘Apostle’ mean? How was it linked to Albright? Or to Tom himself? What was on that data disk? No one knew he had it. Not even Fitzgerald, or Ruby. None of them. It was the key to all this but instinct told him it was a dangerous word to utter.