“Sorry, Tom. Must go.” Milikan ambled away, greeting reporters and reading copy over shoulders.
Capgras cursed under his breath, though he’d have done the same thing, in Milikan’s shoes. There would be no newspaper support on this one. Fair enough. Perhaps it was for the best. He would work alone.
Chapter 5
The Unsleeping Eye
The dragon stirred on its hoard of data, warming its blood. Rumours had reached the beast, dark mutterings that echoed through the labyrinth of tunnels down to the depths where it lurked. The monster’s eyes perceived the twitch of every branch, its ears heard the faintest sobbing of a child, while its skin could sense the wind turn, or the last breath of a dying man.
Bob Shepherd pulled into the car park of the golf club. He looked in the mirror. The BMW motorbike was following, the rider hidden by leathers and a full face helmet.
They walked to the clubhouse in silence. A flunky met them at reception, led them up the stairs to a private office and gestured for them both to wait.
They sat in silence. Shepherd glanced at his colleague. He’d not worked with Owen Naylor before and knew nothing of his history. He wasn’t police though. That was plain. Army, or marines. SAS?
The door opened and Shepherd got to his feet, an instinct drilled into him at school – stand when the teacher arrives, show respect. Treat them like a king.
Sir Leo Fulton-Rhodes walked calmly to the desk, sat behind it and placed both hands palms down. Finally, he looked up. “Well?”
Shepherd’s eyes flicked towards Naylor. The man stood to attention, staring blankly ahead. He was Sir Leo’s man and was leaving Shepherd to answer the hard questions. To take responsibility.
“We had no choice,” Shepherd said. “This was for the best. It’s under control."
“Control?”
“There was no other way.”
“Did you find it?”
“It wasn’t there."
“You’re sure?”
Shepherd hesitated. “We had little time, with reporters arriving. We had to leave."
“It might still be there?”
“It wasn’t there."
“Then where?”
“I don’t know. Yet."
“Albright could have told us."
“He might also have told the journalists, sir. Who knows what he would have revealed."
Sir Leo sat back, turned his face away from them to stare out at his golf greens. “Don’t be so stupid. They were muckraking, nothing more. They wanted tittle-tattle about the girl."
Shepherd paused. Should he say something? Utter that name? He had to justify his position, convince Sir Leo that he was on top of this situation. “Possibly not, sir. One of them was… known to us, as we say."
“Known?”
“A trouble-maker. Rabble rouser with a criminal record. Caught with state secrets, did a few months in prison. It was in the papers a few years back."
“It rings a bell."
“Man by the name of Capgras, sir. He doesn’t write the gossip. Pokes his nose into police work and the security services, politics. All of that. Just the kind of…”
Sir Leo waved a hand to silence him. “Albright wouldn’t prattle to a leftwing hack. I knew him well enough. He was a member here. We try not to…” Sir Leo grasped the armrests of his chair, his face twitching.
Shepherd clacked his jawbone. “There was no choice. He intended to talk."
“Did he reveal anything?”
“Nothing."
“You asked him, directly?”
“He insisted that he didn’t have it."
“But he knew who did?”
“He didn’t say so."
Sir Leo got up and crossed to the window, stood his back to them, surveying his fairways. “This Capgras, does he have information that could damage us?”
“No, nothing,” Shepherd said.
“We can’t take the chance."
“It’s too soon. Too public. He’s connected…”
“We need to stop him."
“There might be a way. Leverage, so to speak."
“A weakness?”
Shepherd smirked. “Family."
“Ahhh…”
“A sister. Easy to compromise."
“Not strong. Do it anyway, in case it’s needed. And clean up this mess. No loose ends. Put something in place."
“He’s under surveillance sir. Has been for a while."
“That’s not enough. Do we have anyone?”
Shepherd played his trump card. “Don’t worry, sir. I've put an operative in position. Close to him."
“How close?”
“He can act, if the time comes."
Sir Leo spun around and walked to the doorway. “Make sure. No press. Whatever it takes.” He left the door open and was gone.
Shepherd looked at Naylor. The man didn’t return the gaze but waited for Shepherd to lead the way. He was armed forces, all right. But did he know his place? How did he see the chain of command?
Shepherd paused, long enough for Sir Leo to be long gone, then strode wearily back towards his car, worrying about the boast he had made and how the past always seems to catch up with you. Ghosts had a habit of crawling from the woodwork. How old would the boy be? Nine, ten? Older? The years had flown by. He was feeling his age. More and more, his thoughts turned to lost friends, to former times, to people and places, wondering what it had all been about. He pressed the fob and his car beeped at him as it unlocked its doors. That name kept coming back to haunt him.
Naylor loitered, as if waiting for orders. Shepherd held the car door open. “Stand down. We won’t need you. Understand? I’ll deal with Tom Capgras.”
Chapter 6
Under Surveillance
The receptionist called him over as he was leaving the building. She held out a letter. He took the envelope. It had nothing but his name printed in capitals. No, stamp, not even an address.
“He didn’t leave any details,” she said. “Young man. Courier, perhaps."
Or someone anonymous, sent on a delivery run. Capgras slid the letter into a pocket and passed out of the offices under the ever-watchful gaze of the security cameras. He headed for his motorbike, parked under a pedestrian walkway behind the bins and recycling banks. He sat on the bike seat and tore open the envelope.
“I have information on Albright. Meet me, today, 1.15pm under Lambeth bridge, north side. Don’t be followed. Don’t bring a camera. Come alone, or I won’t be there."
An hour from now. A strange place to choose for a clandestine meeting. Was it a trap? A trick? A decoy?
Years as a crime reporter, hanging out with police, criminals, lawyers and similar ne’re-do-wells had only reinforced his naturally suspicious nature. Five months in prison for possession of state secrets hadn’t softened his temperament any. He breathed in hard, his lips pulled back over his teeth. He had no choice. That was the problem with being a journalist and every damn fool knew it: they could dangle the bait of information and you had to bite, or risk looking like an idiot when the story broke.
Either that, or you ended up in public bloody relations.
He kicked the bike into life and pulled into the bedlam that was London’s traffic. Ten minutes later, he parked the Norton in a side-street, patted her on the handlebars and walked to the river, taking his time in the early spring sunshine. He sat on a bench overlooking the water and kicked his heels while he watched the world go about its business. The south embankment thronged with workers escaping for their lunch hours, some of them out running, others grasping sandwiches or clutching phones to their ears.
As the clock ticked round he kept an eye on passers-by. No one seemed to be watching him. He’d not been followed from the newspaper, he was sure of that. He got up, walked along Horsferry Road away from the bridge. This meeting place was in spitting distance of MI5. Close to parliament, and the warren of civil service buildings that had grown up around it over the centuries, like barnacles
on a boat. Or peasant hovels, clustered below the walls of the king’s castle, albeit these hovels were six stories high and made of solid Portland granite.
He did a sharp turn, went into a newsagents, bought a paper, came back out and scanned the road. He lit a cigarette from a packet he carried for undercover operations, pretended to take a drag, tossed it into the gutter and ambled towards Lambeth. He arrived early and loitered under the bridge. It was a terrible place to meet. This path didn’t go anywhere much. There was no reason to hang around, so it would look suspicious. And there was nowhere to hide. He glanced at his watch. How long to give him? At eighteen minutes past he was all for leaving when a tramp approached, carrying a bottle.
“You Tom?” The man didn’t look as though he had inside information on a Tory grandee. “Got a message.” The tramp thrust out a hand, holding an envelope. Tom took it. The tramp paused as if expecting a tip. Tom rustled up three pound coins and handed them over. “You get a look at this man?” The tramp shook his head. Tom stuffed the letter in a pocket and walked west along the river. After a few minutes he ripped it open and read the note inside.
“Walk to Horsferry, past St John’s, there’s a café with tables outside. Next left is for parking only. Find a path behind the garages, it leads to the flats. Wait there."
This was too much cloak and dagger but he’d come this far and had to see it through. The walk took ten minutes. Too long. He found the place, there was no mistaking it. As he entered the alley a voice from the shadows told him to stop.
“No recordings. No cameras,” The man spoke as if he’d gargled with coal dust. “I won’t give you my name so don’t ask. Don’t follow me. We haven’t met."
“That’s right. I haven’t seen you. What’s this about?”
“Albright, of course.”
“What about him?”
“You keep this secret. If they find out… they’ll kill me.”
“It sounds important. Shall we get to business?”
“It’s about why he was killed."
“The police say suicide. You think he was murdered?”
“You were there."
“It looked like suicide."
“Looked it but wasn’t."
“Who then? And why?”
“Who is obvious."
“Not to me."
“I can’t give a name."
“Give me a clue then."
“The government, the state. Secret services, police. Someone."
“A lot of names to check. And a wild accusation. Is there evidence? Or a motive?”
“They wanted him dead."
“That’s true of most murders. Anything specific?”
“There’s DarkReach involved somehow, but not sure where they fit in."
“Who’s this?”
“Contractors. Albright was on the board."
“Never heard of them, who are they?”
“There was one thing, though, that got him angry. I don’t understand it or what it means. But it’s connected to all this. Something Albright was working on. He wanted it stopped. I heard him arguing. He was ranting one time. Called it betrayal. Treason."
“Arguing about what?”
“I don’t have much. Just a word, a name."
A car slowed on the road and turned towards the garages. A door slammed. Close by a motorbike revved its engines: a big, powerful, modern machine.
The man in the shadows looked over each shoulder, his body tensed hard.
“What’s the word, what’s the name?”
“Don’t repeat it. It was enough to get Albright killed."
Footsteps approached from the direction of the flats.
“I’ve got to go. If they see me with you…”
“The name."
“Don’t tell them. Promise me."
“Not a thing. I don’t know who you are, remember. Quick."
“Apostle.” The man whispered it. He stared at Capgras though his eyes were deep dark pits. “Apostle. That’s all I have."
“Who is Apostle? What is it?”
“Can’t tell you."
“Can’t or won’t?”
The man barged past Capgras. Tom got a glimpse of a clean-shaven face with a tight mouth. A voice yelled in the distance and the man broke into a run. Capgras slunk into the shadows, listening intently. There were two other men out there. Were they here for him, or his informant?
If he waited, he’d be trapped like a rat in a barrel. He headed down the path and emerged into the open. Nothing. No car. No motorbike. No spies or police. The man was gone. Had they taken him? He had been jittery, scared for his life, there was no faking that. But it didn’t mean he was right. There were plenty of conspiracy cranks even in the heart of the establishment, holding down steady jobs. Tom’s reputation acted as a lightning rod for nutters and their wild tales. But this had the ring of truth… unless someone was setting him on a long con, riding for a fall. If they found him with state secrets, again, they’d skin him like a rabbit. Or throw him in a cell and brick up the doorway. Reopen the Tower of London, have him hung drawn and quartered down at Newgate. Don’t put your nose where it isn’t wanted, or it’ll get bloodied. That’s how the state saw things. That’s how these people saw it, shuffling power behind the scenes.
He stopped to stare in a shop window. Still no sign of a tail, not a live one at least. But what about the GPS in his phone – was it bleeping like an incoming Messerschmitt on a radar screen deep in the bowels of MI6? Were the cameras that infested London watching his every move, monitored by stern-faced men with fat bellies and mugs of coffee?
He’d have to get rid of everything – the files relating to Apostle, Albright’s note. All of it. Destroy the evidence. Stop asking questions about Albright. Keep your head down. Hope it goes away. Lie low. Don’t go back to prison. And don’t stick your neck out for anyone, or anything, at any time.
Chapter 7
A Shepherd And His Flock
Bob Shepherd sat at the desk of his office deep in the bowels of an ageing police station, listening to the rumble of the central heating pipes and the angry clang of metal doors from the custody suite down the hall. He had been offered better premises any number of times, with a view of the city and a coffee machine nearby. But this place suited him. There were no windows, no eyes intruding on his dealings, or his visitors. The corridor was dark and rarely used. And there was a door that led to the back yard and an entryway that was inconspicuous, not overlooked or fitted with CCTV. His men could come and go without having to pass through the main doors, or deal with uniformed officers and their knee-jerk prejudices.
The ‘hairies’ they called his team. He was proud of them, and of their beards, their pony tails and their tattoos. Even their nose studs and earrings. It was all part of the game.
The door to his office stood ajar. Footsteps approached. His operative nodded as he entered and took a seat without waiting to be asked. “Wanted to see me, boss?”
“How’d it go last night?”
“Fourteen arrests. Mayhem."
“Any news on next weekend?”
The operative shrugged. “Not yet. I’ll get it. But they’ll be there, you can bet on that. Is that what this is about?”
“No. It’s about that other thing. You sounded dubious on the phone. A bit negative. I wanted to explain. We have to this. It’s time to get close to the brother. We need him watched.”
The operative shook his head, frowning. “We’ve not even met. I stay away."
“Time to change that."
“Not a good idea. We crossed paths once, years back, when I was in uniform. He might recognise me."
“He won’t. He’s met a thousand coppers, can’t remember them all. You have the stubble, the pony tail. And you’re experienced, one of the best. What’s more, you’re in the perfect position. We need intel on what he’s doing, what’s he’s working on, what’s he’s thinking. Befriend him. Earn his trust. Get him talking."
“It might b
low everything. Years of work."
“Do it. That’s an order."
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything unusual. But especially…concerning Albright."
“He won’t tell me stuff like that.”
“You don’t know if you haven’t tried. Give it a go. And get into his computer. He’s keeping us out and we don’t understand how. Either he disabled the keyloggers, or he knows a way around them. Find out what he’s writing. Who he’s seeing. This takes priority."
“I’ve spent a lot of time getting in there. A shame to wreck it…”
“This comes from on high.” Shepherd paused, thinking it over. Should he tell the man? Mutter the word? It needed to be done.
The undercover operative was on his feet, flicking his hair off his shoulder and scratching his beard.
“There’s one more thing,” Shepherd said. “Keep your ears open.” Shepherd took a long, deep breath. “You hear him mention Apostle, anytime, anywhere, alert me."
“You want me to ask him outright?”
“No. Never use the word. But if he uses it…”
“What’s this about, boss?”
“Better you don’t know. But get close to him. We want answers."
The man shuffled towards the hallway. Would he get it done? Maybe. Maybe not. And then there was that other thing. Bob Shepherd called him back. The man leaned around the door.
“The boy. How old is he now?”
“Eleven."
“He’s all right?”
“Bit strange at times. Withdrawn. But yeah, he’s all right."
“Keep an eye on him too."
“You mean…?”
“Just watch out for him."
The man clicked the door shut and Shepherd put his hands behind his head and sat back in his chair, listening once more to the sound of central heating pipes and the clanging of thick metal doors.
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 3