by Seb Kirby
What else should I expect? Compassion for the fate of a daughter cruelly separated from her adopted father, now having to piece her life together? Or contrition, at least, for the years spent together and the damage done in separating her from her mother? He’s offering none of these things. He’s denying my existence.
I press on regardless. “I know about the house in Morden. How a murder was covered up. How you framed an innocent man.”
He rises from his chair and, for the first time, shows anger. “I must warn you making such preposterous accusations risks prosecution for a criminal offence. Defamation of character. Slander. Libel. If you were to repeat them again, I’ll have no alternative.”
“And let the truth come out?”
He smiles again but this time there is threat in his mouth. “Truth? Do you really think that will win out? Without evidence there won’t be a man or woman in the land who won’t think you’re nothing but a poor soul who’s using my daughter’s tragic disappearance for your own warped ends. Someone who’s even come to believe in the same disturbed way that she is my daughter. What could be more mentally unbalanced than that?”
“I have evidence.”
“Show it to me.”
I’m shocked again by his confidence. What if he were right? What if so much of what I’ve pieced together won’t stand scrutiny in the cold light of day?
I fall back on my journalist’s training. How thorough have I been? What, if called before a court, could I prove beyond a shadow of doubt?
Doubt. That’s what Wilsden is succeeding in sowing within me.
I resolve to stay strong. “You’ll have to wait. But hear me right. I can prove that all you’ve been saying is a lie.”
He points towards the door. “So, thank you for bringing your concerns to me today, Miss Chamberlain. I think we understand each other. There should be nothing more of this wild story. And if there is, you are now aware that this will involve you in a great deal of trouble.”
I decide to accept the offer of escape. I wish I hadn’t confronted him. I should have been more prepared. If he didn’t know it already, I’ve told him there is evidence out there he needs to cover up.
As I head towards the door, he makes a final comment. “And, by the way. If you go near my wife Deborah again, I’ll see to it that you’re restrained from harassing an aged and infirm woman whose dementia is clinically recognized. Someone whose word should never be relied on. Shame on you to have misrepresented yourself to her. Shame on you in coming up so short on journalistic ethics.”
CHAPTER 76
The footage from the Southampton trains yields nothing. Nor is there any sign of Cargill from the security cameras around Waterloo station.
Ives is beginning to think that Cargill has headed elsewhere and, as a result, they are as far away as ever from finding him.
But then Lesley appears with a smile on her face. “I think we have a line on him, Steve.” She points to a fuzzy image on her screen. “This is the driver of a white SUV captured on camera in central London. We found it through license plate recognition on named players in the investigation. This vehicle is registered to a Marsha Kent.”
Ives stares at the image. “And there’s no question she’s using it.”
“But she could have made it available to our man.”
Ives squints. “Doesn’t look much like him.”
“I’m not so sure. Remember what Megan Phillips said. Same build, same posture. He’s put on weight and grown a beard since our prison mug shot was taken, but look at the eyes. It’s him.”
Ives is convinced. “I think you’re right, June. So, where is he now?”
“Well, this image is from three hours ago near New Scotland Yard but there’s been no sighting since, though, I’ve prioritized on going surveillance and we might get something at any time.”
Ives knows what this means. “The last location is consistent with Cargill targeting Wilsden.”
Lesley nods. “That’s my conclusion. So, what did you get back when you called to warn him?”
“What I might have expected. Nothing from him in person. Instead, an offhand message from his office telling me there is no indication that the Chief Inspector is at any greater risk than normal and, even if that were the case, his protection is already well taken care of.”
“So, no recognition there, then?”
“Just a less than polite instruction to back off.”
“Which you’re not likely to adhere to.”
“You read me too well, June.” He pauses. “Any new info on Emma Chamberlain.”
“Nothing yet. We’re still looking.”
CHAPTER 77
Cargill follows the target vehicle all the way from New Scotland Yard and watches as Raymond Wilsden, the fourth name on his list, is delivered to the underground car park of a Soho club.
What happens next surprises and pleases him. Minutes after Wilsden’s arrival there is another. Adam Stanley MP, the final name on the list.
What has brought them both to this place at the same time? This is an unknown but one Cargill decides isn’t as important as the simple fact that they are both here. If all goes well, he would complete the delivery of what he’s promised.
Both men would be transferred to the building above by a secure elevator from the car park, a difficult place to enter without the right security pin. It’s at street level that he decides to seek another way in. He parks the SUV nearby and approaches on foot.
The place looks respectable. The discreet brass plaque reads Montebanc and nothing more. But Cargill is not about to be deceived. He’s seen enough to know that, despite appearances, this is no ordinary gentleman’s club. The men who can be seen guarding the front door look more like East End hard men than club flunkies. The bulges under their suit jackets show they are armed and ready to respond.
His thoughts return to Pentonville and the time spent there sharing a cell with Brian Cooper. In those long days and nights, when there was nothing else to do but talk to each other, they swapped the intimate details of their lives. Brian was understanding and attentive in listening to Cargill’s story. He was not judgmental, as so many are. He understood how Cargill was driven first into petty crime and then into life as a mercenary. He didn’t try to spare himself from full knowledge of the terrible things that Cargill had done, nor the horror of the sufferings Cargill had endured when he was captured by the extremists. By listening and taking on himself the burden of becoming the first significant other to acknowledge all this, Brian had brought his cellmate back from the brink of a despair which, before this, had been destined to close off all hopes of any kind of future. For all this, Cargill was grateful in a way he would never be able to do justice to.
When, in return, Cooper told him how he’d been framed for the murder of Alan Jones and the young Marion Jones, Cargill understood the difference between this and his own situation. Those who destroyed his life were now long gone and were out of reach. But those who’d wrecked Cooper’s life were still out there and reachable. He vowed then that when his sentence was finished he would right the wrongs visited on his friend.
When he was released from Pentonville, Marsha was waiting. She was the one who found the way to right those wrongs.
He thinks of her now and, as before, tears roll from his eyes. She was too good a woman to be taken from this world. Yes, it was Marsha who discovered the nest of corruption surrounding Wilsden and those who had encouraged him to frame Cooper. Those who used this as a way of concealing their own crimes and much worse.
He knows they must be the ones who arranged to have her killed. He can feel a boundless anger welling inside him, an anger that halts his tears.
They think they will be safe within their fortress. Everything tells him this is what makes them vulnerable.
Cargill works his way to the rear of the building. As he expects, the fire regulations favor him. There is a large, open structure fire escape that leads right up to the upper floors. The
y have one man protecting it and he looks as if he’s drawn the short straw as he leans against the railing at the foot of the fire escape and inhales cigarette smoke deep into his lungs.
The problem is that he could be expected to be in contact with his handlers inside and, if he sees Cargill approaching, might raise the alarm.
Yet this is no time to watch and wait. Cargill takes the direct approach.
It’s surprising how close people will let you get to them if they perceive you’re just going about your normal business and appear to be no threat to them. Cargill puts his hands in his pockets and saunters over towards the guard. By the time the man watches him approach and prepares to ask some question such as: where do you think you’re going? Cargill is close enough to pounce. A double-fingered jab to the man’s eyes blinds him. A sharp blow to the solar plexus winds him, causing him to double over. Another strike to the back of the neck floors him and leaves him unconscious.
So much for the thought that the building is impregnable.
Cargill makes his way to the top of the fire escape and drops into a storeroom on the fourth floor. He’s in and they don’t know it. The initiative is with him.
On the floors below him will be other guards, each and every one requiring careful attention if they aren’t to send out a warning. But he’s ready for the challenge.
CHAPTER 78
As I walk away from New Scotland Yard, I remind myself about my meeting with James. I don’t have time to go home and change. He’ll have to accept me as I am.
I make up my mind. This time there will be no talk of getting involved too soon.
When I reach the Altan, James is waiting.
“My turn to be late.”
He smiles and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “No worry.” He pauses. “It’s looking like we need to head straight to the gallery. Does that matter?”
I’m hungry, but pretend otherwise. “Of course not.”
He points towards the large Bentley parked opposite. “I have a car and driver so we can do this in style.”
I smile. “If you’re trying to impress me, you’re succeeding.”
Inside the car, I take in the comfort of the plush leather seats. “Nice way to travel.”
James gestures towards the driver. “Eddy’s a good friend of mine. When I told him where we were going and that I was with someone special, I couldn’t keep him away.”
As we head off through the traffic, I return to what Kautek said in his letter. He’s right. Recovering my past is the most painful experience, and it could get worse. More than Berinski, James must be the one to help me through it.
I begin to question things as the car heads onto the Strand. “I thought the Whimbrel gallery was out in Fulham.”
James has a ready answer. “Laski wanted to meet us here first for a drink.”
“And where is here?”
“It’s his club. We’ll just be a few minutes and then we can head over to the gallery together”
Before going much further than another mile, the Bentley pulls off the Strand, down a side street and into the underground parking lot of a tall, grey stone building in the depths of Soho.
Nothing feels right. From the parking lot, I’m shown to an elevator and ushered inside once James types in a code. A discreet plaque in the elevator says just: Montebanc.
James presses the button for the second floor. He smiles. “Soon be there.”
There is something about his smile I don’t believe. I thought I could trust him but there’s a cruel cast in his lips that suggests otherwise.
I tell him I want to leave. “Ask Eddy to take me home. I’m not feeling too well.”
“And miss meeting Laski? You’ll never forgive yourself.”
“I can catch him another time.”
The elevator arrives at the second floor and we step out into a long corridor. Two men in suits stand guard at the entrance to a room halfway along the corridor. Everything about their manner sends signals of danger.
“Did you hear me, I want to leave.”
James pushes me towards them. I try to move back to the elevator but he takes a firm hold of my shoulders.
The tone of his voice has changed. “Don’t try to run.”
“Why have you brought me here?”
“And don’t scream or shout.”
“Tell me why?”
“There’s someone you need to meet.”
“Where are you taking me?”
James doesn’t reply.
As I’m pushed further along, I steal a glance at Eddy. He looks more like a heavy now than a driver. More like the men guarding the door.
I turn towards James. “You used me.”
He smiles back. “You wanted to be used.”
“How can you say that? I was sure there was something between us.”
“And there is. It’s just not what you thought it was.”
“You’ve never worked at the Globe, have you?”
“No. But it was entertaining making you think I did.”
“There is no Laski.”
“I’m surprised you ever thought there was.”
I’m overwhelmed by the realization that I’ve been played by James and been gullible enough to fall for it. My first instinct was right, after all. He’s a stalker, someone paid to be on my case. I’ve been fooled by his easy charm, all the way into my bed.
When we arrive at the oak-paneled door, James mutters something to the heavies and pushes me into the room.
CHAPTER 79
Lesley traces the white SUV driven by Cargill to Hopkins Street, right in the center of Soho, a location surrounded by the myriad of bars, restaurants and clubs that make up one of the most buoyant areas of London.
Arriving at the scene with Ives, they assess the situation. The SUV is empty. There might be valuable information to be gleaned from a thorough search and analysis of the vehicle, but there is no time for this now. Cargill is abroad on foot and intent on killing again.
He needs to be found.
Ives calls in more police support and orders a premises-by-premises sweep of the area. Yet he knows this is a daunting task. Soho, even in the afternoon, is alive with the unexpected, the unlikely and downright illegal alongside the expected hedonistic business of enjoyment for enjoyment’s sake. The police can bank on an uncertain reception even with a killer on the loose.
Backup is slow to arrive and, when it comes, Ives is dismayed to discover he has just twenty officers to deploy, six of those in a SWAT team. No chance of a thorough search. He tells them to fan out into the nearby streets and make a broad sweep of the area, reporting back anything that should attract his attention. If they are fortunate, there might be some disturbance out at street level caused by Cargill’s activity that could alert them to where he is.
He turns to Lesley. “It has the feel of too little too late.”
She gives a smile in return. “We’re owed a lucky break.”
“That’s only if you believe there’s anyone up there keeping score.”
“Don’t go philosophical on me, Steve. We have enough problems on our hands.”
CHAPTER 80
James pushes me into a large room that looks like it is used for private, even secret, meetings in the Montebanc. Eddy follows.
Seated at a desk at the front is Adam Stanley, the one I’m here to see. Beside him is Raymond Wilsden.
Stanley waves a hand to indicate I should sit on the chair facing them. “Emma. Take a seat.”
I remain standing. “You have no right to bring me here.”
Stanley casts an eye towards James. “I thought you and he were used to going places together. In fact, that you were really close.” He flutters his eyelids at this last word and gives me an insincere smile. “I don’t think you’ll get very far in claiming you’re here against your will.”
“Then, why am I here?”
“So we can have a meeting of minds.”
I look at Stanley as if I’m seeing him f
or the first time. I’ve seen him on TV, giving speeches in the House or interviews about current issues. But I’ve never observed him up close. His greying beard is as well-trimmed as ever. In this moment, it gives him the look of an inquisitor.
The man has presence. His ego fills the room. Each word he speaks carries its own menace. Despite all the layers of respectability he’s cloaked himself with in his public persona, the claims for the reasonableness of his concerns and aspirations for the people, what comes through now is the thuggishness of the man. If he hadn’t found a place in politics, what would he have been? A nightclub owner? A boxing promoter? An underworld crime lord? Yet the media treat him with kid gloves, giving him airtime and coverage in the name of balance and democracy.
I’m aware Stanley is waiting for an answer. “I don’t have anything to say to you. I want to leave. I demand to leave.”
When I turn and begin to move towards the door, Eddy restrains me with a giant hand. He manhandles me to the vacant chair and forces me to sit, facing Stanley.
He smiles once more. “That’s better. Now we can talk.”
“I told you, I have nothing to say.”
“Well, you could start by telling me why you’ve been causing so much trouble to me and those near to me.”
“I’m a journalist. I investigate wrongdoing. It’s what I do.”
“And this leads you to someone like me, a respected MP?”
“It’s confidential. It’s between me and my editor.”
“Bill McLeish. A good man. But pliable, I hear.” Stanley pauses and leans forward in his seat. “Look, Emma. I’m not naïve. I know why you’re investigating me.” He glances towards James again. “There’s not much I don’t know about what you’ve been doing.”
“So, why do you need to ask?”
“Because I need you to understand that what you’re doing has to stop. Making accusations based on a video snatched by a convicted felon who’s motive is to extort money won’t stand up. And when this leads to false claims about the personal life of a well-respected politician, you have to realize you’re entering very dangerous territory.”