CHAPTER SIX
I booked into the youth hostel (yes I am over twenty five but there's no upper age limit) and plonked myself down in the TV room with a cup of revolting tea a pleasant but misguided hippie had thrust into my hand upon arrival. I'm not sure there was any actual tea in it, more likely it consisted of honey, twigs, lavender oil and fair trade well water. Although I was alone in the room I still felt politeness dictated that I took a small sip. I then got up, poured it into a pot plant, apologised to the plant and sat back down.
I had absolutely no desire to watch anything on telly nor converse with anyone but I was knackered after a six hour yomp through various densities of mud. I sat in the far corner of the room with my back to the wall out of habit; I didn't expect any trouble during the evening but then I hadn't expected any when I sauntered to the paper shop that morning.
I pondered my situation. The meeting tomorrow was the real fly in the ointment. Without further information, I couldn't know whether the terrorist cell I'd spent over a year infiltrating had discovered my true identity. Assuming that the obituary was a warning, which I had to go with as the most likely hypothesis for now, I couldn't think what else I could possibly need warning about except the people I was currently working with. This was my only assignment and so much had been invested in it that nobody at the agency would dare distract me from it without very good reason.
I would have to sleep on it and let my subconscious sort things out.
The following morning everything was crystal clear – I was up shit creek without a paddle, canoe or even a pair of wellies. As I saw my situation – and I'd been awake most of the night churning everything over – I had only one possible option. I had to go and see Adam this morning at his flat. It would have been much more convenient if I'd had time to reach this conclusion yesterday but so be it. I'd paid for one night in the hostel so I left at 4.45am before even the keenest ramblers were up and about and began walking to the nearest train station. That would enable me to get to Adam's flat by about 6.40. He was a creature of unwavering habit so I knew he awoke every weekday at 6am and left for the office on foot at 7.15. I knew this from the few nights I'd spent with him about four years ago. We had a go at a relationship but it just didn't work. I suppose it was ultimately positive because the sex brought us closer together and got rid of any potential future tension or misunderstanding. I can't remember now exactly why we decided it wasn't working but anyway, it just didn't.
I grinned at the thought that, bearing in mind his obsessive compulsive timetable, I would arrive at the exact moment he finished his muesli and poured a second cup of tea. That would mean there was one left in the pot for me.
I quickened my pace, enjoying the anticipation of seeing the look on his face when he realised I'd climbed up the drainpipe outside his flat and crawled through the window he always left open for an hour after his morning bath to combat condensation.
The train was a few minutes early and I jogged to the alleyway at the back of his flat, arriving at 6.32. I actually waited a few minutes before ascending the drainpipe because I was so concerned with the timing of my entrance – I really should have behaved more professionally in case the place was being watched but I couldn't resist. In any case, it was my improvisational skills and quirkiness that made me such a convincing undercover agent so I was loathe to curb my natural instincts. It would also be a cracking story to tell everyone if I lived long enough.
For some reason I decided to flush Adam's toilet.
I'd have liked to see his reaction when he heard it but then I snapped to and decided to confront him in case he got any ideas about getting lethal before he realised it was me. I knew better than most that underneath his placid exterior lurked a ruthless, calculating agent capable of astonishing acts of violence if provoked by sufficiently neerdowell people.
“It's me,” I called before walking calmly through to the kitchen. “Shall I pour the tea?”
He was actually standing with the teapot in his hand, gazing open mouthed at me. I smiled, picked up the teapot and refilled his cup before getting myself one.
“You've moved the sodding cups again,” I chided, “ah, here they are.”
I sat down and cleared myself a space on his meticulously cluttered dining room table.
His dressing gown had flapped open and I couldn't help myself.
“New pants, I see.”
He almost exploded with embarrassment.
“Don't worry, I've seen it all before. Now come on, pull yourself together we've got work to do. I assume it was you who posted the obituary?”
“Yes,” he said, gathering his thoughts and his dressing gown. He rummaged around on the overpopulated table and magically found exactly what he was looking for by reaching under an enormous pile of blank paper (I didn't ask, we hadn't the time). “I know it was risky but I had to, because of this.”
He handed me the local paper and went to get dressed, taking his tea with him, no doubt to steady his nerves at my abrupt entrance.
I stared at the photograph of Libby Stevens. The resemblance was indeed uncanny and her address was only three streets away from my current residence. I'd never seen her before but then I deliberately avoided anyone local who might decide to pop round unannounced at an inconvenient moment. The back lane where she'd been killed was half a mile away but if she was walking into town from her house then it was the first obvious place for an attack if someone was following her. That was almost certainly what had happened. If they'd broken into her house then it would have been clear that it wasn't me they were really after but as things stood Adam was absolutely correct in posting the obituary, I just hoped Imran and the boys hadn't read it.
“So,” he said, coming back into the room having dressed himself immaculately in three and a half minutes flat, “are we on the same page?”
“I'm afraid so, which really drops me in the shit. I have a meeting today where they're going to give me concrete plans for their attack so I can decide exactly what weapons to provide them with. It's what we've been working for this last year and half but now I can't fucking go.” I punched the table in frustration.
“No, you certainly can't,” said Adam, sitting down and finishing his tea. “Not unless I can establish this morning whether you've been compromised. Okay, we have three options. One, it was a coincidence that this woman looks like you and she was murdered by someone uninvolved with us. I've seen the pathology report and it wasn't a professional hit but it was unusually violent, even for a stabbing. There was no attempt at rape or to look for any money or jewellery, she had both on her within easy reach. The only conclusion I came to is that the sole purpose of the attack was to kill her as quickly as possible but that the assailant didn't really know what they were doing and basically just knocked her out and then kept stabbing her at random until he was sure she was dead.”
“You mean if he was a pro he'd have slit her throat first to silence her?”
He nodded.
I screwed up my face in consternation. “But there were plenty of people in the vicinity and nobody heard anything or saw anyone running away or anyone with blood on them, which means that, amateur or not, this person had thus far got away with murder. They must be reasonably clever and competent to have managed that.”
“Agreed,” said Adam, “Therefore we have to assume until we know otherwise that there was some reason why a person or persons as yet unknown wanted to silence this woman. It could be a psychotic boyfriend or something but that's massively unlikely. Option two: your cover with the cell has been broken and they killed this woman by mistake.”
“That's not it,” I interrupted, “they've all been to my house, they would have done it there. And if they knew who I really am they would have known they'd have a fight on their hands, this woman died easily.”
“Okay then, option three: somebody unconnected to the cell or your present case killed the woman thinking she was you. There is no evidence to suggest this and I can't think of anything in y
our operational history that would lead to such a scenario.”
“Neither can I,” I said, “but until we find out more information, we have to go with that as a working hypothesis, it's our only option.” I looked at him and grimaced. “Like you posting the obit was your only option, and me climbing your drainpipe was my only option. I don't like not having options, it makes me tetchy. Do you get the feeling we're missing something obvious?”
Adam stood up and began pacing back and forth. It irritated me hugely but I stopped myself from saying anything - I knew if he didn't do this he'd have to do something much worse so I closed my eyes and let the behaviour play itself out.
“I have been working on this at the office when I've been able. Actually your timing's rather good, I'm going to confront Peterson this morning.”
I opened my eyes to see that he had stopped pacing and was watching me intently for a reaction.
“You don't mean you suspect Peterson of trying to have me killed?”
It was an absurd conclusion, but hadn't I leaped to it yesterday?
“Suspicion is all I have but he's acting even weirder that usual.”
“I haven't even seen him for over a year, since I bumped into him at the supermarket. He was acting really oddly then now I think about it but I put it down to the presence of that horsey wife and the cast of 'Children of the Corn' rather than me.”
Adam sat down. Clearly it was his reticence at mentioning our beloved deputy director that had caused the pacing.
“I did some digging under the guise of a random security check. Whether it's anything to do with you or Libby Stevens' murder I don't know but he has done something very stupid. His wife's phone has been used to call a local criminal who fits the description of amateur killer for hire, and yesterday I found ten grand in cash in his sock drawer."
"That would mean he hasn't paid out for the hit, though."
"I know. I'll find out why when I question him this morning.”
“Oh, I wish I was going to be there, I love it when you question people.”
I surprised myself with the lascivious tone of my remark and Adam blushed visibly.
“What do we know about this criminal?” I asked hurriedly.
“Not much, I'm calling in at his local police station on my way in.”
I glanced up at the kitchen clock.
“You'd better be on your way. I'll...” I stood up and then sat down again, “actually I don't know what to do.”
“You'd better stay here. What time's your meeting supposed to be?”
“Three o'clock. I'd need to leave here at two to make it in time. No, hang on... fucking hell! No, I can't possibly go. I'd have to return to the house and call some people and pick up some samples to show them.”
“I can't see Peterson before ten at the earliest; then I have to establish the facts and decide whether or not to put it, whatever it is, on an official footing.” His eyes flickered along with his brain activity as he performed multiple simultaneous calculations. “No, you simply can't go.”
“Which means, if my cover is intact, they'll assume I've run away or sold them out or... well, a number of options, none of them good.”
“Will they expect you to contact them before the meeting?”
“No.”
“Good, that at least gives us a bit of breathing space. Okay, you stay put. I'm sure they couldn't trace you here but just in case...”
He opened a kitchen drawer and rummaged around at the back. Like a rabbit from a magicians' hat he produced a hand gun and a box of ammo, placing them on the dining table.
“Thanks,” I pouted, “you always get me the nicest presents. I have one already but two Glocks are better than one”
“I worry about you,” he mumbled, gazing down at the floor.
Jesus, this was all getting a bit kitchen-sink drama.
I got up and walked around the table towards him.
"Thanks for everything, I do appreciate it. And it's nice to see you after all this time."
"You too," he said quietly.
I put my arms around him. For a second he stood in statuesque silence, then reciprocated. We stood in silence for about thirty seconds, like school kids at the last dance of the evening. Ever the gentleman he made no move but I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking it too and I felt inconveniently horny – it had definitely been a while.
As I broke the hug I caught a glimpse of an unidentifiable expression melting away from his countenance.
“Right,” he said, gathering himself once more, “I'll phone my land line at five past one. If we have to take any sort of drastic action that gives us almost two hours to play with. In the meantime you know where everything is.”
“Except the cutlery.”
He opened a draw which, the last time I'd been here contained a role of fuse wire and 4 broken i-pods. It now contained cutlery.
“There's plenty in the fridge, have you got your set of keys with you just in case.”
“Never leave home without them,” I patted my pocket, “you're the only person I can really rely on.”
He blushed again.
“You can watch TV or...” he trailed off.
“I'm sure I can amuse myself for five hours.”
He smiled.
“See you later.”
He went out into the small hallway so that I wouldn't have to observe his ten minute ritual of repeatedly checking his keys and wallet before leaving. I went into the living room and put the TV on loudly so I could pretend not to hear when he actually left.
Sure enough, ten minutes later I heard the door open and close. I went out and put the deadbolts across, then into the kitchen where I made myself a bucket of coffee and loaded the extra gun.
The Memory Man: T14 Book 1 Page 6