by AD Davies
“I thought we’d be more comfortable here than in my study,” Swank said. “Please.”
He indicated they should sit on the couch, and they did, while he planted himself on a reclining chair, currently fully erect. Beside it was a little bell on a table of its own.
He asked, “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Murphy said.
“If I say yes, will you ring that bell?” Alicia said.
“Yes.” Swank reached for it.
“Then no. Thank you.”
“Suit yourself. What can I do for you?”
“The school,” Murphy said. “It’s very … expensive.”
“Indeed.” Swank crossed his legs so tightly together his nuts must have been flat discs or made from memory foam. “One of the most expensive in the country. Before I served as an MP, I was head of business at Eton, and before that I managed a few years at Cambridge and Oxford. Even trained in a comp. But this is the greatest job. Shaping the youth of tomorrow before they reach any of those places of higher learning. This, here, is where the seeds are planted.”
“And not a bad house thrown in,” Alicia said.
“As I told you, it’s necessary. For entertaining.”
Murphy made a show of taking out his notebook. A prop more than a necessity. People with nothing to hide liked to see cops with notebooks; those trying to conceal something did not.
He said, “Your time as an MP ended in scandal. But you started up here quite soon after.”
Swank uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. “Hardly a scandal. Storm in a teacup. I grew rather enthusiastic trying to help the NHS improve, and my enthusiasm was … misinterpreted. I’m sure you know the details.”
“We do. But after such a high-profile misinterpretation how did you land this?”
“Because I was the best person for the job. Why? What are you implying?”
“Nothing, sir,” Alicia said. “Background. If we have insight into how this level of society works, it’ll help us ascertain the threat level.”
Good, Murphy thought. Push his society as the positive, as superior.
“I knew a number of parents,” Swank answered. “Many of them somewhat anxious at life in the south, and I also knew this place was struggling financially. Targeting the middle class instead of top tier people. So I talked a small, select group into investing with me, and we bought the place out. Let the current crop of children and teachers complete their education, and the staff reapplied for their jobs while I set about building a client base. A safe, secure environment away from the capital, in the very place we would retreat to in the event of a … serious incident.”
“What sort of incident?” Murphy asked.
“At the time we set things up, we, ahh … and this might sound a little opportunistic, but I assure you it was nothing more than a happy coincidence … the threat level was high and a number of contacts informed certain parents of a possible dirty bomb threat due in the coming months. This was in the wake of the 7-7 Tube attacks you understand, so we were all, shall we say, shaken.”
“Wow,” Alicia said, “so because you recruited a bunch of customers through fear, then you must have proved yourself really, really good. That reputation for excellence has grown and now you get boarders from all over.”
Swank tilted his head as if scanning for the sarcasm Murphy knew was dripping from her. The head clearly wasn’t sure, though.
“Important kids, then,” Murphy said.
“Indeed,” Swank replied. “We have Middle Eastern billionaires’ sons here, daughters of MPs, the offspring of a great many captains of industry. And I know, I know, the phrase has been twisted to mean something negative recently, but the children you see here … all around these grounds … these are the people who will shape this country in the future. They’ll be leading it when you and I are dribbling into our porridge while a nurse cleans us up.”
Alicia offered him a big smile. “So, they’re more important than normal children?”
“Of course. Unless you buy into PC nonsense and social justice.”
Alicia wagged her finger. “Oh, no. No social justice for me please.”
Swank’s frown caused Murphy to stand. “Perhaps if we could see the grounds?”
The head teacher lifted his hooked nose as he stood, a suspicious gaze cast on Alicia. As she pushed to her feet, Swank exited via a different door to which they entered, and said, “This way, I think.”
* * *
Despite Alicia pestering him for a turn, only Nigel Swank was allowed to drive the golf buggy, citing insurance. He rambled some more regarding important people who entrusted him with their offspring, how they weren’t bad parents for depositing their thirteen year old child at the gates and waving goodbye for months at a time. As unpalatable it might be for the detectives to accept, these people truly were more important than mere mortals.
No offence meant.
With hardly any students present now, having either driven off campus, adjourned to their common rooms, or got ready for training at the various sports offered, Swank was able to floor the vehicle and reach the main building in a matter of minutes. From here they could watch rugby drills and running on the track, coaches and budding athletes together in the sun. Murphy wasn’t sure if he was jealous or if he pitied the students.
Inside was as Swank described: a modern complex inside a stately home shell kitted out with state of the art fittings, all well-maintained and clean. Artwork lined the halls with no graffiti at all. They arrived at six doors set side-by-side, the sign overhead proclaiming “The Grand Hall.”
“Main assemblies,” Swank said, leading the way into a cavernous room, a cross between a cathedral and a sports hall.
Alicia gazed wide-eyed and open mouthed. “I thought you said this wasn’t Hogwarts! Hold on to your wig, Murphy, an owl might snatch it.”
Swank bristled but remained stiff and calm. “Gym class, banquets, and…”
Dramatic pause as they walked deeper into the hall, and Swank turned to present a stage, not visible when they entered because it occupied the same wall as the doors. Four girls in scruffy gear hefted signage and paint, banners ready to string up, and a dozen boxes littered the area.
“End of term prom,” Nigel Swank said. “This Friday. These young ladies are our prom committee.”
They waved. Each slim and pretty. More good breeding.
Swank beckoned the nearest one over, and she stood to attention.
“Yes, Mr. Swank?” she said.
“I’d like to reassure these detectives that all is well at the school,” Swank said. “Detective Sergeant Friend, Chief Inspector Murphy … this is Holly Costa. Thanks to her diligence and hard work, our prom, and the future of this country is in extremely safe hands.”
“The future, eh?” Alicia said.
“Yes,” Holly replied, beaming. “I think the future is very bright indeed.”
* * *
After an extended tour of Excelsior Academy, Alicia and Murphy agreed it appeared as secure as any facility could be without erecting gun turrets and mining the rugby pitch. On Saturday, the night of the prom, airport-style metal detectors would be in place on each entrance, and Nigel Swank drafted in two dog handlers to sniff for drugs. And these measures were already in place before Alicia and Murphy voiced concerns of “chatter” picked up regarding an attack.
The prom was the most obvious target.
But what concerned Alicia was that if she were a terrorist, or simply an anarchist trying to destabilise the establishment—which is what this increasingly appeared to be—she would not wait for a prom, especially now the police had shown up at both the school and the Institute.
She would act quickly. And perhaps, if they were lucky, somewhat rashly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jacob Rocaby held the warrant in one hand, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, an exercise learned years ago from a prison psychiat
rist whose name he’d long-forgotten. His eyes rose to meet those of Detective Sergeant Stevenson, the young copper decked out in body armour marked “POLICE” in bold white letters.
He said, “You’ll wait. Our evening meal has just started—”
“We don’t have to wait,” Stevenson said. “Let us in now.”
“I want our lawyer to look at this.”
“Thirty seconds. Then we come in by force.”
Looming behind the smart-arsed little prick, a team of ten armed police officers arrived a few minutes ago in a van, accompanied by a small tank-like vehicle. Jacob faced them, stood outside the gate of the place he’d called home for almost a decade. They did him the courtesy of ringing through on the gate’s intercom rather than breaking down the barrier and invading like an army, and Stevenson explained the tooled-up tools were only a precaution. If Norman Faulkner surrendered without a fuss they wouldn’t have to encroach on their land.
“I don’t understand half this stuff,” Jacob insisted, handing back the arrest warrant. Shoving it back, really. Right in his chest so Stevenson stumbled a bit. Not enough to constitute an assault, but he clearly didn’t like it.
Good.
Stevenson was unarmed, as was Jacob, and as far as he knew there were no weapons on the property. Nothing illegal, anyway. Some shotguns for clay pigeon shooting, half a dozen rifles for rabbits, although they were constantly under lock and key. It probably didn’t help that a few of the guys bore firearms and stabbing offences, which is likely what prompted the excessive force. Still, if agitated or frightened, like animals, a number of the residents might lash out with a hoe or axe, triggering a bloodbath they might never recover from.
“I’m only obstructing on safety grounds,” Jacob said, trying to sound like a robotic cop. Mirroring, they call it, calming people down using the familiar, using their own tones. He’d done some courses. “I don’t want anyone getting spooked. Your guys or ours.”
“Then bring him out.”
“You’ll need to give me some time. I can’t let him out unless Kuno says so. It’ll drive the men insane.”
Stevenson made one step backwards, placed his hands on his hips, and turned to the lead armed response officer. All in black. No name badges. Goggles on everyone, some with fabric over the lower half of their faces. The lead AR guy beckoned to two men who paced alongside him toward the gate, which had locked behind Jacob.
“We have a safe place here,” he said. “We designate it that because we have legal protections. If I dispute the warrant, you have to obey, or—”
“This op is classed as counter-terrorism, Mr. Rocaby.” Stevenson stood forward. “Last chance. Either let us through and allow us to leave unimpeded with Mr. Faulkner, or we will force our way in.”
Jacob read the text message that pinged through from Kuno Kae. He said, “Fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask. We promise our people legal protection. Don’t make me break that promise.”
Stevenson again glanced at the AR lead, who shook his head.
The armed response officer said, “We’ve already given them ten. For all we know the target is hot footing it across the moors while we chat.”
“Then we go in now,” Stevenson said. “Take him.”
Two black-clad goons grabbed Jacob, and when he struggled, one of them struck him in the gut and pushed him to the gravel. He was aware of instructions being shouted at him, but he could not hear them properly. On his knees, someone cried, “Get him down!” but his quickening pulse, the heat flushing through Jacob, it drowned out everything but his need to survive, to lash out. His muscles buzzed and his vision blurred. He lifted himself up.
“Shit!” yelled one of the men on him.
“Help!” came the other.
A huge roar filled Jacob’s ears and it took him a moment to understand it was coming from him. Behind the goggles, the eyes of the man on his right boggled, and Jacob aimed his forehead square at the base of the kid’s nose. He felt teeth crack under the blow, and barked a laugh as the officer fell, before turning to the one on his left, and—
Something sharp bit into his back, and the AR guy on his left scuttled sideways.
“Clear!” someone shouted.
Jacob’s back burned, his knees buckled, and his back arched. This wasn’t the first time he’d been tasered, so he knew exactly what was happening. And he knew there was no point resisting. Oddly, the added pain helped clear the red mist. As the cops swarmed and cuffed him, his mind swam slowly back to the days when he would run through the streets of Leeds, at the head of his firm of what the media deemed “hooligans” but what his neighbourhood called “heroes.” It may not have been noble, nor even very wise, but it helped so many young men escape the reality of their horrible lives. Destroying the face of somebody who supported a different football team was not conventional therapy, but it certainly worked for Jacob.
Now, lying there in the dirt, he was glad he no longer needed his firm to banish the memories of his father. And watching helplessly as the armed response team carted out Norman Faulkner, the older man screaming to be let go, Bill Khan and Vernon Slater strode alongside, hands clasped behind their backs to prove they weren’t a threat, and shouts and yelling in what may have been the distance or may have been right next to him … even now, he cursed Horatio Rocaby.
If not for Horatio’s actions, Jacob Rocaby would not be lying here today praying that the police’s presence was nothing to do with his father’s secrets. Secrets Jacob himself still kept, and every day lived with the prospect that they might come back to haunt the world once more.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With her mother still sleeping in what would soon become the nursery, Alicia tried to treat her morning routine like a dress rehearsal for the arrival of her son. Not that a doctor had confirmed the gender, but as soon as Alicia delivered the news Robbie touched her stomach and simply said, “a boy.” Of all the people they knew who’d fallen pregnant, Robbie had never been wrong. It wasn’t that she received a vision or voices speaking to her; she simply said the word, and the word was true.
The only difference between a baby and her mother sleeping on an air bed was that a baby would grumble a whole lot less about Alicia’s life. At least she hoped so. Otherwise a trip to the adoption centre may be on the cards after all.
After being pressured into terminating her first pregnancy, she could not go through that again despite its genetic heritage. She did consider adoption, but did not believe a child should have to go through that lottery, nor did she want the child to grow up and exercise its right to learn its true parentage, and be confronted with the choice between telling the awful truth or lying.
She was getting good at lying.
Her lie yesterday evening was that she had a lead on the father’s whereabouts, and she wanted to be alone with him to drop the bombshell. She could not use the “work” excuse, for she assured her mother she was taking it easy, and doing virtually nothing at all. For the old lady to learn Alicia was neck deep in this potentially explosive case would be to worry her all the more. Especially now since Alicia carried a scar on her stomach, thanks to a nasty run-in during the spring.
Instead, she paid a visit to Murphy’s niece, Darla, and asked a few more questions covering the deeper masking of locations when it came to digital signatures. Alicia’s theory that someone might be able to point the police in the direction of the IROMOV people sounded like science fiction to Darla, because that would mean someone needed to be physically present in the Institute’s server in order to reroute the VPN.
A waste of time, but it avoided another conversation with her mum about Robbie moving out.
After leaving her apartment at 7:00 a.m., Alicia allowed herself a coffee on the way to Sheerton, and was returning to her car when her phone rang. It was a withheld number, so she assumed it was from one of the landlines used by the police. It was not.
“Alicia Friend?” said the woman whose voice was famil
iar, but Alicia couldn’t put a name to it.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m calling from Langton Hospital and I don’t have another next-of-kin listed.”
Richard.
“Has he died?” Alicia asked.
“No, nothing like that. It’s Katie. We’ve restrained her, but she tried to kill her dad.”
* * *
Alicia used the blue light on her Ford Focus to get her through the morning traffic and out to the hospital. In one of the plush relatives’ rooms usually reserved for delivering bad news, Katie hugged her knees and rocked gently on the sofa. The decoration was bright and cheery, but the two security guys in white T-shirts and slacks were not. On one of their arms, three fresh red lines had been raked down it, and although not gushing they would certainly require attention.
“Hi, Katie,” Alicia said.
Katie looked up from her knees. “You didn’t need to come.”
“It was either me or a uniformed bobby arresting you for assault.” Alicia could smell the booze from six feet away. Hard liquor, sweet; bourbon most likely. As she sat beside Katie, it grew even more powerful. “So why don’t you tell me what happened, hon.”
“I’m not quite sure.”
The guard with the raked arm adjusted his feet, but said nothing.
Alicia said, “That nurse, the one you like, Beatrice. She called me. She said you turned up a few hours ago, outside of visiting times, and sneaked past the night duty nurse. You hit her.”
Katie closed her eyes again, forehead to her knee. Her father was a skilled fighter, a precaution he took for the rare occasions his victims fought back, and he passed on a number of those skills to Katie. It helped her survive last year’s ordeal, but perhaps made her dangerous when unstable. Or drunk.