The Psychonaut_Book 1

by Tom G. H. Adams

  Merrick scanned the officer’s mind and registered iron resolve. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with this one. He bit his lip to prevent vitriolic wit from surfacing.

  However, a breaking point was coming, and if he didn’t find a way out of the situation by legitimate means, he was prepared to risk making a run for it. He was in up to his neck anyway.

  Shamon could have taken Lotus anywhere by now. She might even be dead—or worse. Shamon’s last taunting words still echoed in his mind.

  They led him to a room where he was told to sit down.

  “The Super will be with you shortly, sunshine. In the meantime, don’t try any funny business.”

  “Could I at least have a cup of water?”

  The one called Chris looked at him, as if weighing something up, then said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  They locked the door behind them and left him to sweat. Chris reappeared with some water. It was luke-warm and reeked of chlorine.

  More waiting around. He saw a wolf spider scuttle across the floor, out on an early hours foray for dipteran prey. He wished he could draw inspiration from the creature, like Robert the Bruce before the Battle of Bannockburn. However, the forces arrayed against him seemed more formidable than those faced by the ancient Gaelic king. He fidgeted with a loose thread on his shirt and tried to think through his options. None presented themselves. He would have to take whatever medicine Phillipson doled out before he could act.

  The door swung open and DI Phillipson swaggered into the room. The same pair of tan slacks he wore on their previous encounter hung from his waist in a crumpled mess. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves and sweat stains spread like an oil slick from his armpits. He threw a thick manila envelope down on the table and sank into a chair on the opposite side of the table. He folded his arms and stared at Merrick.

  There’s anger there. Suspicion too. But they’re rippling under the surface. He’s assessing me.

  Merrick decided to take the initiative. “Look, you need to understand I’m not saying anything until I’m given my phone call and a lawyer.”

  Phillipson ran his tongue over his teeth. “Okay,” he said, and reached a phone from his pocket. He placed it on the table.

  “I believe I’m allowed some privacy.”

  Phillipson rose. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said and left the room.

  Merrick thought about calling Karapetian, then punched in Mike’s number, hesitating before pressing the green phone key. What if they record the number and trace it?

  “To hell with it,” he said aloud, and pushed the key. It rang a long time. He was about to cancel the call when Mike picked up.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Mike’s voice sounded like a rusted outhouse door opening.

  “It’s me, I’m in trouble.”

  He heard Mike click on a light at the other end. “What’s the time anyway?”

  “Mike, listen. I need help.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in? Is it to do with that occult guy you met the other day?”

  “Partly.” Merrick told him the salient points of the story, trying to miss out the supernatural elements and anything else that would directly incriminate him. But it was difficult. Even his own ears found the tale incredible.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Mike said. “Why would the police implicate you in grand larceny?” Doubt and suspicion edged Mike’s voice.

  “I’m innocent, that’s all I can say on this phone. Can you help me or not?”

  Mike took the hint and sighed. “I don’t know. One thing I can do is get you a good lawyer. I know someone who represents some of the dodgiest crooks in London. But he isn’t cheap.”

  “Hire him. Can you pull any strings with the police?”

  “Where are they holding you, and what’s the name of the guy leading the investigation?”

  “I think it’s Islington, and the top prick here is a guy called Phillipson.”

  Mike whistled. “You poor fucker.”

  “Thanks for building my confidence. Is there anything you can do?”

  “If this was a speeding ticket or a parking fine I could pull a few strings, but this is way beyond my influence. Your best bet is the lawyer.”

  Merrick tapped his fingers on the table. “Okay,” he said finally. “Once I get out of here I’m going to need you again. Can you drop your work for a while?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve got a pretty lucrative job on with a client and—”

  “I’ll pay twice what he’s giving you.”

  There was a pause from Mike’s end. Unexpectedly, Merrick could read the faint script of his thinking. Does this thing work at a distance now?

  “You got it. But I must be mad. This situation sounds as sane as a box of frogs.”

  “Don’t I know it. I do appreciate you putting yourself out like this.”

  “Money talks.”

  A smile creased Merrick’s face as he killed the call. Mike was loyal and dependable—he just didn’t like to show it. He wondered if the police could somehow retrieve the information he’d just shared, but he accepted this was the least of his worries at the moment.

  He was ready for Phillipson.

  The DI didn’t take long to appear. He eyeballed Merrick, wolf-like as he made his way to the desk.

  “You talk to your guy?” he said with unconcealed contempt.

  “He’ll be here shortly. Until then I say nothing.”

  “Fair enough,” he said and pushed the envelope that remained on the table towards him. “Have you taken a look?”

  “Was I meant to?”

  “I think you should.”

  Merrick looked at it uncertainly, then back at Phillipson.

  “No obligation,” Phillipson added, “but seeing as you’re going to be mute for the next while it could help pass the time.”

  Merrick waited long enough for the pause to become insulting then picked it up. Inside were grainy A4 photographs. They’d been lifted from CCTV footage. The first showed the Bedford where Celestia and he had holed up outside the museum. The second had clocked him emerging from the back of the van. The next was from a different angle. Due to image enhancement he could make himself out, shoving the doors of the museum open. The final one was the street outside his house. Two men were in conversation. One was him, the other was Albany.

  “What’s this?” he said without thinking.

  Phillipson adjusted himself on the chair and leaned forward, hands folded. “You have the right to remain silent, but not the right to stop listening.” He looked away, like something had caught his attention in the corner of the room, then resumed. “So, in the space of just forty eight hours we have you implicated in a murder outside a nightclub. You’re then arrested for involvement in what appears to be a gang war in the British Museum, and to top it all off you seem to have been the last person to see a certain James Bolin alive.”

  “No comment,” Merrick said.

  “We’ve recovered over sixty five bodies from the museum, and we’re still sifting through the wreckage, not to mention the bloody great hole left by some excavating machine. The press are having a field day out there. You can’t hear yourself think for the choppers circling overhead or the arrival of a news team. We’ve even got CNN on the scene. So, congratulations. Your caper has gone international.”

  “Still no comment.”

  “Hey, I don’t need you to speak. Not yet. But do listen, because there’s more.”

  Merrick drummed his fingers on the desk. Psychonautic energy bristled in his nerve endings but he kept it under control. He detected a holding back. Phillipson had more to reveal, and he was immersed in confidence. The DI was in his domain and Merrick knew that his own reticence to speak was not a setback. This man, haughty in his domination of the situation, could afford to wait.

  “We’ve identified only one single corpse, except the eight security guards, that is. Most of the peo
ple, and I use the word advisedly, are nobodies—literally.”

  Merrick held his gaze in silence.

  “There’s still more. The cause of death amongst this freak-show is a coroner’s fantasy. There’s some who died of conventional gunshot wounds, sure, but others met their end as a result of crushed skulls, asphyxiation and wounds from weapons I last saw on a King Arthur film. Hell, there’s one guy seems to have suffered from an exploding head. It’s like a war zone. In fact, we were about to call in the army. As it is, the NCA is taking charge.”

  “Guess you won’t get to question me after all,” Merrick said, his smug reply concealing a rising trepidation.

  “Don’t you count on it, motherfucker.” Phillipson’s voice rang cold and hard. “I’m drinking buddies with the top guys in the NCA and they’re including me in the investigation. So we’ll be asking you questions—lots of them. We’ll also be putting your new girlfriend through the mill too.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said.

  “No. I didn’t think you’d be one for the cougars. You’ve got enough money to take your pick of the socialite whores.”

  “I’m not going to dignify that with—”

  He was cut off by the door flying open. In strode two men quarried from the same granite edifice, eyes steely and mouths disdainfully thin.

  “DI Phillipson?” said the one in front.

  Phillipson twisted round. “Yeah— who the fuck are you?”

  “DCI Fenton.” He held up his id for Phillipson to see. “And you can watch your foul mouth from now on.”

  “I thought Nick Walker was heading this one up?”

  “Things have changed. The director thought this rather unique incident needed oversight by the OCC.”

  “But I’m still part of the operation, right?” Phillipson’s voice had a pitiful tone.

  “I’m afraid not. Your services are no longer required.”

  “But—”

  “Greigson,” barked the DCI to the suit behind him, “Take Whyte to the car.”

  “You can’t just shut me out like this,” Phillipson said.

  Fenton gave a sardonic smile. “We just have.”

  Merrick tried to train his third eye on Fenton’s mind, but it was a wall.

  Strange. He should be shooting off testosterone and adrenaline like an oil gusher.

  The suit guided him towards the door while Phillipson protested.

  “You can bet your arse I’ll be on the blower to the Director General about this,” Merrick heard him say. The suits ignored his protests.

  Through in the front office, Celestia waited with another NCA suit. Fenton was speaking with the desk sergeant.

  “Aren’t I glad to see you,” Merrick said. “Do you know what’s happening?”

  A secret smile played across her face. “Lazlo’s taking care of things.”

  ~~~

  Chapter 18

  Invisible

  They arrived at a wrecking yard during the bleak early moments of sunrise. The driver steered the car through a gap between two decrepit piles of rusting insurance write-offs and brought it to a halt.

  “This is where you two desperate criminals overpower us hapless law-enforcement types and make your bid for freedom,” Fenton said.

  Merrick looked at Celestia, a clouded expression on his face. “That doesn’t seem a likely scenario.”

  Fenton took off his shades. “It’s improbable but not impossible. I think I can make it work. Besides, it’ll oil the wheels of my departure from the NCA. They don’t tolerate incompetence, so a suspension on full pay is a foregone conclusion.”

  “It’s still a noble sacrifice for our cause n’est pas?” Celestia said.

  “Best part of twenty years spent climbing to the position, yes. But Lazlo assures me our asset here is worth it. You are worth it aren’t you, Mr Whyte?”

  “That’s not for me to say,” he replied, the repeated reference to asset needling him. “Not that I’m ungrateful for all you’ve done, but Lazlo seems to be putting all his eggs in one basket.”

  Fenton sighed. “That’s not exactly what I wanted to hear, but it doesn’t matter. Let’s get out and make this look convincing.”

  They emerged from the armoured Lexus to the sound of a crane in the mid-distance, lifting its load like an early-rising steel brontosaurus.

  “You know where to take him?” Fenton said to Celestia.

  “The Hornchurch safe house, oui.”

  “Okay, take the car and dump it north of here. You’ll have to make it on your own after that. There’s a change of clothes in the boot, along with your personal effects. Blend in. Once they report your escape they’ll plaster your faces over every internet bulletin board and news channel.

  “We could do with an illusionist,” said Celestia.

  A flicker of grim humour crossed Fenton’s face. “You used up most of them at the museum. Lazlo couldn’t spare any more. Any other questions?”

  “Hundreds,” she said. “But they’ll have to wait.”

  “Right. Let’s do this.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “A broken rib or two. Cuts and grazes to the face. Knocking us unconscious would explain the time we’re giving you as a headstart. Just don’t overdo it.”

  “You know this will hurt me more than you.”

  “I very much doubt that.”

  With startling swiftness, she kneed Fenton in the stomach and chopped him on the side of the head, bringing him to the ground. To finish the job, she kicked him once in the chest as he sprawled in the dirt. Merrick watched with unconscionable fascination as she dispatched the other two suits with similar ease.

  “Get in the car,” she ordered. “You’ll have to drive.”

  “But I don’t know where we’re headed. I think it would be better if—“

  “Vous êtes un imbécile. I never learnt do drive.”

  Merrick shrugged and climbed behind the wheel.

  She directed him through a twist of back streets then signaled him to stop behind a parked motorcycle.

  “Can you ride that?” she said, nodding at the Kawasaki.

  “Sure, I used to ride in the moto-three’s back in the day. But I don’t know how to hot-wire it.”

  “You won’t need to. There’s a key in the top box.”

  “You can detect that?”

  “The owner treats the bike as he would a lover. He has left a strong imprint on each of its accoutrements.

  “Then lets steal his mistress.” The act of theft seemed petty in light of recent events.

  It took a matter of thirty seconds to break into the top box. They changed clothes in the back of the car and were spitting gravel before a further minute had passed. Celestia tapped on his shoulder to guide him, and the thrill of being free again, the wind whipping his hair back, gave him a transitory elation. He realised they would draw attention to themselves traversing crosstown at this rate, not least because they weren’t wearing helmets. So he was relieved when she indicated they should stop in a lay-by on the outskirts of the city.

  “Are we close yet?” he asked.

  “Oui, but I need to take a—“

  “Wee?”

  “Vous êtes incorrigable.”

  “Ooh, formal address—now I know I’m in trouble.”

  While Celestia ensconced herself in some bushes further down the bank, Merrick’s thoughts turned back to Lotus. He tried to shake off a thick shadow of dismay, but the hopelessness of his situation weighed him down. Every hour he spent off the Ukurum trail made the prospect of saving Lotus more remote. He had to make a decision, so when Celestia made to climb back onto the bike he stopped her.

  “Celestia, I’ve got something to say.”

  She turned to look at him. “You can’t bear to be apart from her can you?”

  “No,” he said, “and I don’t think Lazlo will have her high on his priority list.”

&nbs
p; Her dropped gaze told him all he needed to know.

  “I’ve trusted Lazlo up to this point,” he continued, “against my better judgement. I was prepared to take a risk with him based on this crazy, intoxicating world he’s introduced me to. But it’s all turned to shit.”

  “C’est vrai. But it is just a set-back. I have seen Lazlo recover from worse. Believe me, he is your best hope for locating the Ukurum. His agenda may be different, but he has the resources to do this.”

  “I have resources too. People I can trust. Lazlo won’t even shake my hand without wearing gloves. That tells me there’s a lack of mutual respect.”

  He looked wistfully up the road. The traffic was building up.

  “I can’t lay all the blame on him though, it’s all on my head. I chose my ambitions over Lotus and now I need to put that right.”

  Celestia’s shoulders slumped. “What are you going to do?”

  “First, I’m going to drop you off at the safe house. Presumably, Lazlo will take care of you from there. I’m going to get in touch with my friends and make some plans. You’ll forgive me if I don’t tell you what they are.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay. We’d better shift. The road’s getting busy.”

  ~~~

  Mike Frappery slammed down the phone for the fifth time in half an hour. Every time he hit redial it cut to voicemail.

  “Damn you, Merrick,” he said out loud.

  He hadn’t yet rung his latest client to cancel their contract, and he was beginning to think he wouldn’t need to make what was likely to be an awkward call.

  Restless, he stood up and found himself looking at an old photograph on the wall. It was taken outside Durham Castle, a typical wide-view shot of the Bailey House graduates. They’d slipped the photographer a couple of notes to take it, as most of his work that day had been shots of individuals or academic faculties. The Bailey barnstormers, as they were known, had the reputation of a tight-knit but disparate group. Others at the college thought them to be a clique, but in actuality they were just loyal to each other.