Chapter 33
Too Much Information
For a journalist who had dedicated his life to searching out the truth, here in black and white lay the recompense for his hubris. Here he found more truth than any man could endure. Here lurked excess of it, a surfeit to make the appetite sicken and so die.
Tom Capgras sat through his sister’s trial, head bowed, eyes transfixed by the file. His file. A print-out of what the state knew of him: a summary of the GCHQ database entries, from the details of his birth to the contents of his laptop, the contacts in his mobile, his email records and his movements. All his medical background: from regular prescriptions for hay fever through the time he thought he might have heart disease, and the doctor told him he was fit and fine, but drinking too much and shouldn’t he go easy?
They possessed psychological profiles, commissioned after his arrest for possessing state secrets. They held school reports, a list of former lovers, including one he’d never heard of, or didn’t recall, or had repressed into his deepest memories. But of course, Gina Gilmour was in there, in detail, complete with photographs of their tryst together outside Westminster Abbey, with Tom’s chest strapped with explosives. There was an entire section on Tom’s former schoolfriend Charlie Marlo, who had faked his own death and sent Gina and Capgras out on the suicide bombing mission, and whose whereabouts right now were, according to the file, unknown even to GCHQ.
That had to be a cause for concern.
There were photographs, taken through his own phone’s camera, and an old laptop, he recognised the location. He turned over page after page. His love affair with the serial killer Kiera Roche also warranted an entire section on its own. Had they known all along, but done nothing, while she went on a murder spree through London’s book world, all the time framing the hapless mid-list author Arthur Middleton whose best books she had ghostwritten? Could they have stopped her? How did it end? “No confirmed contact with Capgras since her disappearance.” Did that imply she remained alive? If they could find her why didn’t they? She killed enough people, left a trail of mayhem and had blown up a swanky London medieval hall as part of her insane package of revenge.
In the courtroom the prosecutor droned his case. Tom half listened. He looked up now and then, to check on his sister, and to make sure no one read over his shoulder. He hunched around the paperwork, terrified of what secrets he might find.
They tracked every website he visited, and he’d been to plenty of strange ones, as part of the job. He regularly trawled the neo-nazi sites, the terrorist networks, the bomb making information silos, the forums dedicated to delivering the end of the world: as a crime reporter, an investigator, he gathered evidence. But here, his browsing habits in black and white might just as easily be used against him.
On the stand, a policeman delivered lies in his most professional, clipped and responsible tone of voice. This case was a game, a mockery. What did they have on Emma? Was she in this file somewhere? He kept reading, picking apart not only what the authorities knew about him, but what they thought about him too: their assessments, judgements and dismissive sneers. “Lacks the personal resources or leadership to represent a tangible danger.” Danger of what, to whom? He worked as a reporter but to them, he was a subversive. Not one of them. Not on the right side: the side of privilege and natural power, inherited wealth and the status quo. A man who wanted the world to change into a better place. Was that so wrong?
He turned another page and found a top-level summary of his character, his work and the threats he might pose. “Drinks to excess - can be exploited.” “Criminal record makes him easy to discredit.” A section on blackmail options listed the time he’d let a fraudster walk free, never turned him in to police or even wrote the story, all because the man was dying of cancer, and had given the cash, taken from the bank he worked for, to an animal charity. Capgras took a moral decision that day, though he’d known few would agree with it. He could face prosecution for collusion, according to this report.
He might be mentally unstable, it said. Well, that was true of everyone. Capgras kept going. Weak around women, never settling into one fixed relationship. Didn’t they understand how hard it was these days, keeping anything together, when every girl you met had a thousand options available, at any moment, on her mobile phone? Which world did these people live in? And besides, if he didn’t want to settle down, that was nobody’s business but his own.
A file on his time in prison listed his friends, allies, enemies. No misdemeanours that might be exploited to apply pressure, according to the report. Tom had a fair idea what they meant by that. Another ten page section dealt with his friendship with Doug: how they met at University, kept in touch, even when Doug joined GCHQ as a database consultant. They knew of the times Tom had called for help. Nearly all of them, at least. A few were missing, especially the more recent attempts. Tom and Doug had tightened their security on that front.
Scores of old friends and colleagues got a mention, tarnished, many of them, by their relationship with Capgras, the subversive, the stealer of secrets.
He glanced up at the courtroom. The magistrate was deep in conversation with the two lawyers. What had happened? He’d barely listened to a word of this. He should be taking notes, for Emma’s sake, but the defence lawyer could get a transcript if needed. He turned back to the file, eager to read the rest, though he didn’t expect it would lighten his mood any.
After wading through the piles of paperwork, he came upon a separate envelope, sealed and with a printed note on the front: “Health warning - do not read. You won’t like it. Top Secret.”
Red rag to a bull. Tom gripped it, about to tear it open, but the magistrate banged his table and ordered a recess. The press box swirled with bodies desperate to flee the courtroom and file copy or make phone calls, or smoke cigarettes, or stretch legs, or check the cricket score. Capgras bundled up his parcel and headed outside, determined to find a quiet corner to learn his fate undisturbed.
Chapter 34
Briefings
The waiting room downstairs in the courthouse sounded like a bad day at bedlam. Tom roamed the corridors looking for a quiet spot, and came on Emma’s lawyer standing in an open doorway, talking to a man inside. Tom passed by, glanced in. Mark Rockford, Emma’s boyfriend. Still here. Why?
Their eyes locked. Rockford scowled and looked away. The solicitor noticed because he swivelled around to face Tom. “You can’t be here. This area is for witnesses, you have to go. There should be security.”
“They’ve got their hands full downstairs.” Tom pointed at Mark. “You’re calling him as a witness? He started that riot."
The defence lawyer stepped outside and shut the door. “Move along.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “He’s going to admit it. Everything. He’s police, undercover, has been for years."
He should have known. Perhaps deep down he always had known. Or suspected, at least. And Ben? Ben had sensed something was wrong. Tom put his hands to his head. How would this hurt Emma? Too much. It was too cruel after all she’d suffered.
And then… and then… there was his own reputation: the hot-shot investigative crime reporter with a mole in his own family circle. What a fool, they would whisper. Such a story, yet he missed it all.
And then… and then… Mark had been speaking to Rob. If Mark was police, then Rob was police. And Rob was Ben’s father. Emma’s ex. Tom put his hand on the defence lawyer’s shoulder and gripped hard. “I’ll bet he hasn’t told you the whole tale. I’ll wager there’s one thing he didn’t mention, one thing more you need to know."
Chapter 35
Daggers
Mark stared at the floor as he entered the court room. All eyes turned on him. A murmur rose from the public seats: Emma’s friends, whispering like witches, wondering what this might mean. Emma glowered at him, eyes wide with shock or fear or confusion, it was hard to tell. She turned away, anger burning on her face.
He didn’t blame her, but he woul
d make this right. He’d tell the wholeness and the truth and put an end to her pain and injustice. She would forgive him. She’d take him back in the end.
He stood in the witness stand and mumbled the oath as he had so many times before.
The defence lawyer waited for the room to fall quiet. “The name you gave the court is Mark Waterstone."
“That’s right."
“Is that the only name you’re known by? To the accused, for example?”
“She knows me as Mark Rockford."
“But Waterstone is your real identity? Rockford is an assumed name?”
“Yes."
“And what do you do for a living, Mr Waterstone?”
“I’m a police officer."
The back of the court erupted in catcalls, boos and general bedlam. The magistrate banged the table and demanded quiet, his face stern.
The defence lawyer folded his arms. “What is your rank?”
“Detective constable."
“And in what kind of policing do you specialise?”
“Undercover operations."
The hubbub burst forth once more but died away swiftly as the magistrate glared at the public seats.
“You have been operating undercover?”
“For the past three years."
“And who do you keep under surveillance?”
“A range of protest groups, some of them linked to violent demonstrations."
“Environmental protesters?”
“Yes."
“And is that how you met the accused?”
“She was part of a group I infiltrated.”
“So it was by luck and chance you became acquainted?”
What did that mean? “Yes.” Where was this going?
“And how would you describe your relationship?”
“We’re lovers."
“You lived together?”
“Much of the time, yes."
The defence lawyer paused. That was for effect, Mark was familiar with the techniques. Here it came.
“You love her?”
No hesitation. “Yes.” He glanced at Emma. She glared sharpness and daggers back at him. The whispers broke out once more across the court room. In the press box, Tom sat hunched forward, staring him down.
“So you are in love, the pair of you?”
“We are.” He didn’t dare look at her again.
“You’re still together?”
“We’ve been having difficulties, since all this."
“Naturally. So… you are a police officer acting as an undercover spy in an environmental organisation, while carrying on a relationship with this young woman. Did she know?”
Mark shook his head.
“You’re sure?”
“Certain. She’d have kicked me out."
“That would have been understandable, no? You deceived her."
“Yes, but…”
“You lied about your identity, you used a false name, you didn’t tell her she was under surveillance by you, by the police. You were in her life, in her house, in her heart and in her bed."
“There’s more to it…”
The magistrate hammered the table once more, ordering the crowd to silence. Emma stared into space, tears in her eyes, her face contorted with stress and fear and pain. He was causing this. These lawyers weren’t helping. Go easy on her.
“We’ll move on to the day in question. You attended the demonstration in the centre of London? You were there on Whitehall when the trouble started."
“I was, yes."
“Can you tell us how it began?”
“I threw a rock, half a brick, towards the police lines."
Silence hovered over the courtroom, beating the air with silken wings. No one breathed.
“Odd thing for a serving police officer to do. No?”
“I was acting under orders. It was prearranged."
“Ah, so you were there as an agent provocateur?” The man’s French accent was extravagant, practiced and delivered with a flourish that suggested a holiday home in Brittany, or maybe Provence. He sounded pleased with himself.
“It was deliberate. I had been ordered to start the trouble."
“Why?”
“To give the police an excuse."
“To break up the demonstration? To spark a riot?”
“Yes..."
The howls of outrage from the back of the courtroom drowned his answer. The magistrate thumped his table. “One more outburst, I clear the room."
“Let me get this straight.” The defence lawyer sucked air through clenched teeth. “The violent disturbance we’ve heard so much about began when you, an undercover police officer acting under orders, threw a brick at your fellow officers?”
“Yes.”
“Whose orders?”
“I can’t say."
“Who gave you the order?”
This wasn’t part of it. They had a deal. No names. No blame. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information."
“This woman’s future is at stake. Whose orders?”
“I don’t know."
“Is that the truth?”
“Yes."
The magistrate drummed his fingers on the table. “This is your witness."
“If you would indulge me a little further, I think things will become clear.” The defence lawyer turned back to Mark. “So, your lover was there that day too. Did she help you start this riot?”
“No, not in any way."
“She wasn’t in cahoots with you? Helping her boyfriend, standing by her man when the trouble began?”
“I acted alone, and I wasn’t near her, didn’t want to be, thought she’d be safe there."
“But that went wrong?”
“It did."
“Do you regret your actions?”
“I do."
“You wish you hadn’t started that riot?”
Mark said nothing, but stared at the ceiling. Get this over with.
“Is your superior officer aware you are here today to give evidence?”
“Yes. No…” He flailed. Where was this heading?
“What will he think, when her hears?”
Stupid question. He couldn’t speculate about what someone else would think…
“Will you have a future in the police?”
“I doubt it."
“You’ve wrecked your career, for the love of this woman?”
“And for justice. She did nothing wrong. She’s innocent."
The magistrate thumped his knuckles on the wooden bench. “There’s no jury here today, no need for flamboyance."
The defence lawyer paused, waiting for the moment to pass, and the air to settle.
Mark fidgeted, longing for this to be over. He’d done his bit, told the truth, now he could go. Get it over with. Emma still wouldn’t look his way. She’d come around. She had to. He needed her.
“You’ve known the accused for some time. You’ve witnessed her behaviour on demonstrations. Is she ever violent?”
“Never. She’s a pacifist."
“In deeds, not just words?”
“Yes."
“You also know her family, her son for example. Ben, I believe. You care for him at times?”
No need to mention Ben. Why bring the boy into all of this? “I babysit, run him to school, get his meals together, yes."
“You’re a regular family?”
“You could say so."
“And the boy’s real father isn’t around?”
“No."
“Where is he?”
“No one knows."
“Really?”
“That’s what I’m told."
“Ah.” The defence lawyer produced another of those long pauses, like a ham actor in a village panto. “Would it surprise you to hear, Mr Waterstone, that the boy’s father was spotted, this very day outside this court room, talking to you."
Mark glared at the lawyer. Bastard. He’d been set up. Who had seen him? How? Capgras. Tom.
Bastard.
“The man was known to the defendant as Rob Jarsdel.” The defence lawyer gestured towards Emma with a fling of the arm and an open palm. “He fathered the child eleven years ago, is that right?”
Mark said nothing. The courtroom hummed with the quiet of a midnight graveyard.
“He disappeared, until today, when he was seen talking to you. Is there any chance, Detective Constable Waterstone, that the man in question is also a serving police officer? And that he is your superior officer?”
Mark sat, dead as a stone, refusing to answer. Why this? They had a deal.
The magistrate leaned forward. “Answer, please."
“I prefer not to."
“What is his real name?” The defence lawyer waited, waited. “His name? He was identified, today, by my client’s brother. He was absolute and certain. He saw the two of you arguing."
“How is this relevant? I’ve told the truth."
“It’s relevant, detective constable, because it is possible that you didn’t meet my client by accident but you targeted her, acting under the orders of this mystery man. Is that true?”
“No. I met her by chance, fell in love."
“Who is your superior officer? Who gives you direct orders? I would have the man’s name."
“I can’t answer that, for operational and security reasons."
The magistrate hissed through his teeth. “Answer the question. The court would hear your testimony in full."
Mark’s chest tightened. They had backed him into a corner with no way out. Did he have to answer? He was a witness, not the accused.
“The man’s name, if you please?”
“Detective, answer. Or you’ll answer to me,” the magistrate said.
Mark gulped air into his lungs. Should he lie, to protect his boss? Again? Or tell the truth, nothing but the truth? They’d kill him. But if he lied… if they found out… He let the air go with a sigh that rattled in his throat. “Bob Shepherd. Detective superintendent Bob Shepherd."
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 13