No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  A timid knock at the door startled Pole. Andy was hovering in the doorway with a look on his face that Pole knew well. He had found something that might have escaped a less discerning mind.

  “I did a lot more digging, Guv, and I managed to follow the women after they left the tube station.”

  “After they left Seven Sisters?” Pole cautiously replaced the documents he was reading in their envelope and sat down, waving for Andy to do the same.

  “That’s right, Sir. They were all chatting happily but I had a feeling they were protective of one woman amongst them.”

  Pole had called up a Google map of the area on his computer screen. Andy dragged his chair towards Pole’s desk to help him track their movements. He picked up a pen and moved it across the map.

  “They crossed the street, went into Page Green Common, walked through and crossed the road on the other side, but when I looked more carefully I could see that one of them was missing.”

  “Well done. Does she reappear later?” Pole’s voice had a new ring to it, the edge it took when the chase was on.

  “No, but a car, a black SUV, arrives on the Green ten minutes afterwards.”

  Pole nodded expectantly.

  “It parks underneath the trees then it leaves very quickly, driving back towards Finsbury Park. Got the reg number and ran it through ANPR. The number plate does not exist.”

  Pole smiled. “But you managed to track it because …?”

  Andy chewed his lip. “Traced it by creating a new number reg that can be tracked by the system. Then the system recognises it because —”

  He stopped abruptly, judging that the minutiae of his handiwork might not interest Pole. “To cut a longer story short, Guv. It went to a garage, rent a car place in Finsbury.”

  “That’s a brilliant job.”

  “And.” Andy grinned. “I managed to pick up a similar-looking woman walking towards Wilberforce Road. She then entered a small hotel. After that nothing; can’t trace a woman in full niqab.”

  “But a few women came out just wearing a simple scarf.”

  “Correct. I’m following through.”

  “We’re closing the net.” Pole’s voice had an edge again.

  “Are you speaking to Commander Ferguson?”

  “Why do you ask?” Pole felt put on the spot. Did Andy suspect he was holding something back?

  “If you give me a couple more hours, I might be able to track down where she actually went.”

  Ambition is sometimes a good thing. Pole nodded. “Granted, then we can discuss what you find.”

  Andy walked out a little bit taller, his plump body shaking with trepidation – puppy turned bloodhound. Pole liked it.

  He sat back in his chair, an eye on the MI6 envelope. He could indulge himself for a few more minutes. Pole let more documents slide out into his hand: reports of political and artistic activity it seemed. Names of art pieces that the authorities had classified as subversive, mainly paintings, but also some sculptures that embraced Western modern art trends. Despite the poor quality of the images and the paucity of the vocabulary describing the pieces, it was evident that the art was executed with confidence and spoke, at least Pole felt, about social anguish, individuality and reform. The documents were dated up to 1989, the year of the fateful Tiananmen Square protest that saw the tanks of the Red Army kill ten thousand people.

  Pole replaced the contents in the package. The search for Nancy’s father went cold after that date it seemed.

  * * *

  She had unpacked the small sculpture and it lay surrounded by protective bubble wrap on her settee. Nancy ran her fingers over the stone and smiled. It felt both smooth and coarse at the same time. The profile of the young woman had the angularity of a Modigliani, yet the affirmation of a contemporary piece.

  Pole’s instinct had been spot on. It would look striking in her newly redecorated lounge. She had done away with the mural on the far wall and allowed the area to be painted plain white, space for more art. The first purchase had been made with Jonathan, a new painting by one of her friends, the artist Susan Rosenberg. The hanging of the piece had been a celebration, accompanied by a glass of excellent champagne.

  She moved closer to Susan’s piece, a colourful abstract piece unique and uplifting. Pole had moved into her life effortlessly. Yet it had taken the trauma of the previous case they had worked on together to make it happen. She needed his company; no, more, his affection. Nancy stepped back from the piece. Why could she not speak the word that kept wanting to be heard but not acknowledged?

  Love.

  She shook with irritation at her own inability to face her feelings. She, so very able to ask the harsh questions when working on a case, could not bring herself to ask the simplest one when it came to emotions.

  Was it why she had formed a friendship with Henry, understood him, two people wrestling with their feelings? Pole had never been jealous of Henry and he was right. Their affection was of a different kind. She admired Pole for being able to recognise this and never trying to oppose it, despite his reservations.

  Nancy drifted away from her lounge, into her office at the far end of her apartment. She looked in, uncertain why she had moved to that room.

  Pole. Henry. The Letter.

  She moved a strand of dark hair away from her face, still on the threshold of her office. She had to speak to Pole about The Letter. The equivocal note Henry had slipped into her hand a few months ago, both ominous and hopeful.

  Her BlackBerry’s ringtone interrupted her deliberations.

  “Jonathan?”

  “J’ai besoin de vous,” Pole said. “In a professional capacity.” A small wobble of embarrassment in his voice. “Marsh is being difficult.”

  “Well, I do not mind you needing me in whatever capacity,” Nancy teased. “I’ll do my best to convince The Super, mon cher ami.”

  “And you will succeed, je le sais.” Tease happily received.

  The thought of China floated into Nancy’s mind. But why ask? Pole would let her know as soon as he had received news that was worth relaying. It was good to have utter confidence in someone. It was reassuring, a feeling Nancy rarely sought but that she discovered she enjoyed. The burden shared felt so much lighter.

  Pole was showering her with instructions regarding Marsh. She didn’t mind for once, carried by his silvery voice, a warm rich authoritative baritone that cared.

  “Jonathan, Jonathan,” she finally interrupted. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Of course.” Pole stopped abruptly.

  “Is Henry still at the Yard?”

  “Not for long. I thought it would mollify Marsh and the Belmarsh governor if we sent him back early today.”

  “Good thought.” Nancy hesitated. Whilst talking to Pole her hand had started fumbling with Henry’s letter, burning her fingers. But what could she say now? And would it mean Henry not being allowed out of Belmarsh again, so he would be unable to obtain for Marissa the information she so badly needed?

  “Nancy, are you still here?” Pole’s voice interrupted her thinking.

  She pushed the letter away. “Yes, I’m just wondering when the best time is to see Marsh.”

  “I’d speak to Marsh’s PA and grab a slot as soon as possible if I were you,” Pole said. “Do you fancy a drink afterwards?”

  “Une proposition irrésistible.”

  “I might be a little late.”

  “I’m in no rush. I’ll wait for you with a good book.”

  The Super was behaving like a petulant child. She hung up and dialled Denise’s number immediately. Marsh needed to be acknowledged as the important man he was. She did not mind putting on the charm as long as it bore fruit and it would.

  * * *

  Brett had taken the call. It was the first time Mohammed had spoken to him on his burner phone.
>
  “The Sheik wants to know whether you are ready?”

  The sharp answer that was on Brett’s lips stayed there. “I’m working on it. I told him I don’t —”

  Mohammed interrupted. “I don’t know the details.” And it was obvious he did not want to know either. His job was not to argue with Brett but to deliver the messages.

  Sly, Brett thought. The Sheik would no longer communicate with him directly but put pressure on him through Mohammed. Brett had to say yay or nay and nay was out of the question.

  “I’ll be ready by the end of today. Say at what time?”

  “It’s imminent.” Mohammed’s voice had lost its rich Middle-Eastern tone. It had become the flat voice of a scared man, hardly uttering his words for fear of saying the wrong thing.

  There was no point in giving Mohammed a piece of his mind.

  “What’s the process?”

  “I’ll meet you tomorrow with a new burner phone. The instructions will be sent on that,” Mohammed finished with a cough of relief.

  “That’s a little slim,” Brett protested, again why bother but it was good to vent.

  He drew a blank from Mohammed, predictably.

  “Fine, and I presume as usual a text one hour before the meeting will tell me where to go?”

  “Sorry, yes.”

  Brett killed the call. His hands shook a little. He no longer was in control of the trajectory in which his business and possibly his life were going.

  “Fuck.” Brett threw the phone onto a chair. It rebounded and almost crashed on the floor. “Fuck. Get a grip.”

  He pulled back the exquisite Hereke rug from the floor, pressed hard on a couple of boards and a small opening appeared. He took out his MI6 laptop and logged in. The five minutes it took to go through the security protocols lasted an eternity. He sent an email to Steve – will be told details of transfer tomorrow.

  The response was almost instantaneous. Steve was tracking Brett’s emails, unexpectedly. Brett almost wished he could go back to the time when Steve took a couple of days to reply.

  Shall we meet at the club?

  Not now. I will find another way of communicating with you. Back in touch tonight.

  Brett walked to his Louis XV antique desk, took out the Highland Park bottle of whisky and poured a large glass. Hell, the bottle was still half full and he might never get to finish it. He took a mouthful and let the amber liquid do its trick. He topped up the glass and walked back to his armchair.

  Brett took a more reasonable sip, grabbed another mobile phone he had prepared. Time to call his Italian contact and prep him up: flattery, more money no doubt, more flattery, perhaps a few veiled threats he might have to take the business elsewhere.

  Yes, it would work.

  * * *

  Ferguson was on his way. He was bringing two of his team to review Andy’s findings. There was nothing Pole could do to prevent it and he was almost glad Ferguson was coming. Agent Harris could not stop that.

  Nancy was with Marsh, no doubt getting The Super to where he needed to be. Henry had left for Belmarsh and arrived without incident. It all sounded perhaps a little too smooth.

  Marissa’s name flashed on the screen of his BlackBerry.

  “What can I do for you, Marissa?”

  “Mark Phelps would like to meet Henry.”

  Pole’s eyebrows shot up. “A confrontation?”

  “I don’t think so,” Marissa replied slowly. “He needs to understand. Make sense of what has happened.”

  “Victim meets perpetrator. Do you think it will help?”

  “I spent a long time with him this afternoon. I think it is important and —”

  “You’re worried he will pull away otherwise.”

  “Mark could meet him at the Yard.”

  “I can clear this with Marsh but, Marissa, who will tell Henry?”

  “Nancy could.”

  Pole was about to reject the idea. But it seemed Nancy was brokering every delicate situation and making a splendid job of it already. Pole grinned. It was good to be vindicated about involving her.

  “Do you think he will accept?”

  Pole moved around his office whilst thinking. “To be frank I’m not sure he is ready.”

  Pole turned towards the clock on the wall. Ferguson was late.

  Unusual.

  Marissa stopped, alerted by Pole’s lack of focus.

  “Sorry Marissa. Nancy is probably the best person to speak to Henry but don’t expect him to rejoice.”

  Pole terminated the call by wishing her good luck and moved to Andy’s desk. He had not heard either. Pole returned to his office. He would give Commander Ferguson another fifteen minutes and call.

  He did not have to wait too long. The door of his office closed abruptly. Ferguson stood in front of his desk, alone.

  “We need to talk.”

  Pole pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Ferguson dropped the files covering it on the floor unceremoniously, his face like thunder.

  “I received a call from MI6.”

  Pole nodded, a few sharp pins prickling his spine.

  “It seems that your case involves one of MI6’s assets.” Ferguson moved his fingers giving the word assets an air quotation.

  “I see.” Pole did his best to look surprised. Ferguson was too incensed to consider his reaction closely.

  “Which means that I have to delay any intervention with this bloody lot your chap has traced.”

  “Why delay?” Pole knew the answer and he did not like it.

  “I don’t know. It’s not uncommon to launch an assault and isolate the MI6 insider but there is always a risk.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Pole asked, hoping the answer would be nothing.

  “Stay put until I get MI6 onside. I have not said my last word. National security is as much my concern as theirs.”

  Pole agreed, giving a few words of support as Ferguson was leaving. “And make sure your chap does not speak to anyone about what he has found. I don’t like leaving this hanging but I’ve no choice, so keep it safe for me.”

  Pole nodded again and watched Ferguson disappear into the corridor. Pole’s usual sound judgement was about to be tested to the full, he feared.

  * * *

  Superintendent Marsh was walking out of his office when she arrived. His face was a little red and unwelcoming. He made an effort to greet her and apologised immediately.

  “Emergency meeting I’m afraid. I’m so very sorry I have to cancel just as you are walking in.”

  “Don’t worry, Superintendent. I understand the pressure you are under.”

  Marsh straightened up a little; a compliment would always go a long way.

  “It is very kind of you. Unfortunately, I cannot delay, but walk with me and we can talk.”

  They both made their way towards the bank of lifts. Nancy spoke about the request from Mark Phelps. To her surprise Marsh was not in the mood to argue. He agreed with the request, would speak to the Belmarsh governor and did not foresee a problem as long as the meeting was organised at the Yard.

  “Something on your mind, Superintendent?” A bold question from Nancy perhaps, but why not?

  “National security is on everybody’s mind,” Marsh volunteered.

  His BlackBerry was ringing. “Pole, I’m coming your way.”

  Marsh bade Nancy goodbye, with a rapid bow. She had never seen him so anxious. He was taking Pole with him to his meeting and that could not be a good sign.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pole could hear him before he saw him. Marsh was coming his way and evidently also on the warpath. MI6 was throwing its weight around and intruding into the Met’s operations. He did not like it.

  Pole stood up in anticipation.

  “Ah, Pole – glad yo
u are still at your desk.”

  Obviously. Pole bit his lip. “How can I help you, Sir?”

  “You’ve spoken to Ferguson I gather.”

  “Yes, he came in to talk about our latest findings.” Pole waited for Marsh to say his piece. Marsh’s face had the livid colour of anger, his dark eyebrows gathered in one straight line.

  “You mean your team has been able to track the shooter?”

  Blast, Ferguson had spoken to his superiors already. “Although I wanted to discuss with Ferguson in detail to make sure.”

  Marsh did not even bother to rebuke Pole. He was keeping his frustration stored up for someone else to feel.

  “Right, I’ve asked the Home Office to call an emergency coordination meeting. The constant interference of MI6 has to stop.” Marsh was playing politics but Pole had indeed noticed MI6 interference; he was at the centre of it.

  “I wouldn’t know, Sir.”

  “Of course, you wouldn’t.”

  Perfect answer and Marsh was still not asking the right question – who had given MI6 the heads-up?

  “When is the meeting taking place?”

  “Now. We are expected in fifteen minutes. You can brief me in the car about the evidence you have gathered.”

  Pole shrugged his jacket on. Picked up a file Andy had been compiling. Marsh was rehearsing his arguments with him: interference – trust – cooperation.

  Pole fell back a little when they reached the ground floor on their way to Marsh’s car, enough to send Nancy a quick text.

  With Marsh – will be late, vraiment désolée. Jx

  He had pressed the send button before wondering whether the x was too much.

  When they reached the Home Office, Commander Ferguson and the Head of CT Command in London had already arrived. The Home Secretary and his aide were in the meeting room, having a final conversation behind closed doors. A couple of people, a tall wiry man and a Middle-Eastern-looking younger man, sat in a different corner; MI6 didn’t mix. The aide to the Home Secretary opened the door and everybody walked in. Pole followed Marsh. They all shook hands and introduced themselves. Agent Harris was not there. Pole breathed a sigh of relief until one of Harris’ colleagues mentioned he could not attend as urgent matters required his attention.