The Grayson Trilogy

by Georgia Rose

  “And you didn’t think that was strange?”

  “At the time, yes…” I hesitated, “…but what was I meant to do about it?”

  He tilted his head, nodding slightly. I thought I’d made a fair point, then he surprised me.

  “David and Marjorie’s surname was Brown and they lived at 48 High Street, Branham. Curtis and Fiona Mathers lived at 5 Blackthorn Drive. Steve and Helen Morris lived at number ten.” I thought he’d successfully filled in all the blanks, but couldn’t be certain. The fact he’d done it without notes was impressive. I wondered why we’d been through the rigmarole of this line of questioning when they clearly knew the answers already.

  “You’ve done your homework.” My voice sounded a little croaky and I cleared my throat.

  “Of course we have.” He sat back and studied me a moment. “I don’t know if you noticed, Grayson, but in each case I referred to the foster parents as having lived at that address. None of them still live at the address they lived at with you.”

  I frowned. “Not one?”

  “Not one. Now what do you think the chances are of that?” He paused and I hoped this was a rhetorical question as I had no idea. I let the silence extend this time and left him to fill it. “And when do you think they moved out?” I had absolutely no idea – why would I have done? I shrugged as I shook my head, and he told me, his words slow and deliberate. “They all moved out the night you were taken from them to your next home, and we have, so far, been unable to trace any of them.”

  The silence after he’d spoken felt thick with anticipation. Questions raced through my mind, but not knowing which to ask first, I decided to keep quiet for the moment and see what else he divulged.

  “As you have probably gathered by now, Grayson, we are thorough in our investigations. We check out every detail, follow up every lead, make sure every ‘i’ is dotted and ‘t’ crossed, as it were, and the difficulty we have with you is this.

  “Despite our extensive checks and cross-checks, we can find no record of you or any of your foster parents ever having been on the social service records. As far as we can tell, you have never been fostered with any registered foster family, nor have you ever been on the adoption register.

  “In fact, Grayson, as far as the social services are concerned you have never existed.”

  Chapter 6

  What? Completely confused, I looked over at Trent in bewilderment. He along with Cavendish looked as surprised as I did, and at that point Trent came over to sit next to me. He took my hand, which felt cold against his warm skin, and I appreciated the support.

  “But that’s ridiculous. I lived at each of those addresses with all of those people.”

  “We don’t doubt that,” Rodwell confirmed. “In some cases we’ve been able to track down and speak to neighbours and some have remembered you. But on whatever basis you were living with them then, it wasn’t as part of the fostering system.

  “Did you never think it odd that you were there as an only child? Most foster places are within families.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I ventured. “At least not at the beginning. How would I have known that it was anything other than normal? I’d been living like that since I was five, it was all I knew. It was only at my last school that I met someone else in foster care and realised how different my life was.” I thought that was a good point. She lived in the town with a noisy family and had been with them for years. I remembered feeling a little envious of her settled situation.

  Now it was as if I’d had the rug pulled from beneath my feet with regards to what I thought of my upbringing. I sat for a few moments, trying to get my head round this information, knowing it was going to take considerably longer than that to work through it. Pushing it to the back of my mind for the time being, I remained mystified as to why any of this would be the business of MI6.

  “I appreciate everything you’re saying, but I don’t understand what interest it is of yours anyway where I lived, or with whom.”

  “It is of interest to us, Grayson, when it appears that you have infiltrated the security services. Albeit an external part of them, but nonetheless, you have come to our attention because our investigations reveal that you are not who you purport to be.”

  My anger erupted at that and I bit back at him sharply.

  “This is not who I am purporting to be, this is who I have believed I am!”

  Rodwell’s eyes widened with surprise at my interjection.

  I was angry. It felt as though they were making out I was up to no good here on the estate. What, did they think I was some sort of mole sent in to spy on the organisation? I wondered what Cavendish would think of that and looked over at him. He put his hand up to me, placating.

  “It’s all right, Grayson, we know you’re not up to anything…” and he gave me a small smile which brought a twinkle to his eyes, “…of a nefarious nature here.” With one word he took me straight back to my interview when I’d questioned him about the nature of the business on the estate. Trent squeezed my hand, and a thought suddenly came to me.

  “But I had a background check done when I came here. Surely that would have revealed anything untoward…” I looked helplessly between Trent and Cavendish.

  “It wasn’t the same depth of check that has been carried out now,” Trent replied. “We were mostly looking at your employment background and the basic personal stuff, nothing of this level.” I wondered then how much he already knew of what was only now being revealed to me. Maybe over the last couple of days he and Cavendish had been briefed on me and my background as well as being questioned.

  “But I have a birth certificate that confirms who I am.” It sounded feeble, like I was trying to justify my existence. After everything that had gone before I wasn’t surprised at the response I received.

  “It’s a fake,” Bond confirmed.

  My body sagged a little in defeat. I looked over at Bond and Rodwell. “So who am I?” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Good question. Why don’t you have a look at the package that arrived for you?” Rodwell indicated towards the parcel on the coffee table in front of me. I dropped Trent’s hand and pushed myself forward on the settee so that I sat on the edge, then reached for the package and lifted it onto my lap.

  “It’s been opened.”

  “Of course it’s been opened.” Bond was back in the speaking role again. “If a package mysteriously arrives at headquarters it’s taken away by security to be thoroughly investigated.”

  “You couldn’t have just delivered it to me?”

  “No…” He hesitated before elaborating. “It was sent as a message.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Why else would it have been sent to us?” He had a point.

  Something else occurred to me. “Why do you say ‘mysteriously’?” For the first time, Bond appeared to be a little uncomfortable. He cleared his throat before replying.

  “We’re checking the security cameras to see if we can see who it was delivered by, but at the moment it seems as if one minute it wasn’t there and the next it appeared on the desk.”

  My eyebrows rose slightly. “As if by magic?” I was teasing him a little; I could sense his discomfort at having to explain what appeared to be a breakdown in security. I didn’t get a response other than his steely look intensifying and I let the moment pass.

  “Can I open it?” He lifted his hand in a go ahead motion. I peered at the brown paper packaging. It was addressed, all capitals in thick black pen, to Mrs Emma Trent, care of the MI6 headquarters in London. I removed the paper to reveal a wooden box; it was dark golden brown, warm, the patina glossy, though worn round the edges. My fingers traced the inlaid pattern that ran around the top of the lid in a lighter wood as I tried to take in every detail. I was mystified as to why this would have been sent to me.

  In silence, aware all eyes were on me, I opened the lid. The box was empty. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t for it to be e
mpty. The lid was attached by brass hinges and there was a ridge of wood like a batten running around the inside, as if it’d once held something in place, such as a tray. I brought the box closer to my face to examine its interior, and it was at that moment I caught it: the faintest, faintest hint of a memory, so quick I almost missed it. I closed my eyes as I tried to focus; to repeat the experience. I needed more. There was nothing tangible so describing it as a memory was the only way I could explain it. Something from my past, and I couldn’t even describe the scent. Warm wood? A spice? Smoke? A mingling of all of those? But it wasn’t the scent itself that was important – it was the memory it evoked. Not even a memory though, not strong enough for that. A feeling, that’s what it was, and that feeling was of something comforting and good…

  In the periphery of my senses I was aware that Cavendish was speaking, saying the questioning had gone on for long enough. Rodwell and Bond were arguing they needed more before they could leave.

  I put my hand into the box and pushed one end of the base down. A click, and the edges of a drawer showed as it popped from the base – less like a drawer, more like a hidden space.

  Silence.

  I glanced up to see all four men now sitting forward, staring intently at me.

  “How did you know about that?” Rodwell asked, sounding puzzled. “I wasn’t told that was there.”

  “Then it would appear your security department investigation was not that thorough after all, was it.” I didn’t even look at him as I spoke, nor did I bother to hide the dry sarcasm in my voice.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t know.” And I really didn’t, but something had been triggered by the ‘memory’ I’d smelt. However, my answer was distracted as I was more interested in the contents of the drawer that I’d taken by the edges and pulled further open. A stack of photographs were revealed, which I lifted out. By the look of the haphazard pile that now sat on my hand they were not a set, but more like individual photos taken from a variety of cameras over the ages.

  The first, fading with a slight yellowish sheen to all its colours, was of a young woman, pretty and pale with dark hair – big hair, long, dark curls – sitting on a settee. A baby was wrapped tightly in a blanket in her arms. From her expression, it was clear her focus had been on the baby someone having to call to her to look up. Reluctantly made to drag her attention away from the bundle in her arms, she had fleetingly met the camera with a look filled with a mixture of delight, pride and happiness. I imagined the moment the shutter had closed, her eyes turning back towards the baby. I remembered that same intensity of feeling when I’d had Eva.

  I passed the photo on to Trent.

  The second showed a toddler wearing dungarees and a T-shirt with bare chubby feet, just walking, perhaps only just standing, taken up close. Its hands were above its head, fingers tightly gripping those of an adult for support as it struggled gamely to take the next step. Blue eyes, flushed cheeks, its mouth was open showing a few pearly white teeth.

  The third was, I assumed, the same child, older – three or four – painting at a table, concentrating intently on the job in hand, the tip of her tongue visible at the corner of her mouth. A girl, and there was something familiar about her. Her hair was longer and pulled back into a loose ponytail, from which most of it seemed intent on escaping, wisps falling across her face. Her mother sat next to her – or I assumed it was her mother. It was the same woman, anyway, from the first photo. My eyes flicked back to the girl.

  Something familiar about her?

  She looked like Eva, but she wasn’t.

  Eva had looked like me…

  Her mother next to her.

  My heart lurched as I gasped. My mother next to me? My throat tightened and tears welled as I looked at the mother’s face, frantically trying to find something I could honestly say I recognised, but there was nothing. And if it was my mother, how sad was that?

  I didn’t utter a word as I passed each photo along to Trent for him to look at, then he handed them along to Cavendish, and so on round the circle. I left them to draw their own conclusions.

  The rest of the photos told the story of me growing up through all those awkward, gawky years, becoming more and more recognisable as me as the photos progressed. Through the school years, a variety of school uniforms were on show depending on which school I was attending at that moment in time.

  Then, pretty soon in the pile came the first photos of me riding. I recognised the ponies, and later on the horses.

  A photo of Alex and me, our sixth form selves, his arm slung across my shoulders on our walk home from school. Another of us as we left our house in Crowthorpe.

  Then more of Eva, firstly being carried in a car seat, then as a little girl as Alex and I swung her between us as we walked down the road, our delight clear as she squealed with laughter. Another memory brought back to me.

  Me alone, sitting on a bench, taken from the other side of the churchyard.

  The last one was of Trent and me kissing in the gardens of the Manor, him in a charcoal-grey suit, my dress elegant, the train like cream pooling on the grass behind me.

  The photos all had three things in common: they were taken outside; they were taken at a distance; they were taken without my knowledge.

  I waited as the photos did the rounds then collected them all back into the pile which I kept close to me. No one spoke, and I wasn’t about to discuss what appeared self-explanatory. I looked over at Rodwell.

  “You didn’t know about these photos, so I’m not sure how you jumped to the conclusion that this empty box was a message being sent to you.”

  He tilted his head in acknowledgement and reached into his inside jacket pocket.

  “It seems to me these photos,” and he indicated to the pile in my hand, “are a message for you, not us. The box wasn’t empty when it arrived. I took this out. I didn’t want you to get distracted.”

  And he handed me another photo, taken this summer. Two men: Trent and Cavendish; two women: Grace and me, standing on the steps of the courthouse. I remembered it well – we’d just come out of the inquest into Zoe’s death. Three crosses, drawn roughly at the places our hearts would be, marked Trent, Cavendish and me.

  A circle enclosed the cross over my heart.

  I felt Trent stir next to me then move closer as he caught sight of the photo. He took it gently from me as his hand ran up my back, caressing and soothing me. I watched him, his features darkening as he peered closer at the photo, flipping it over to check out a mark on the back that I hadn’t seen. He then passed it wordlessly on to Cavendish.

  “It’s okay,” he muttered, “we’ll sort this out.” I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I did know we had now all caught up on the who-knew-what-when part of the questioning. Judging by their reactions, neither Trent nor Cavendish had seen this photo before.

  “I don’t know what this means,” I said to no one in particular. I’d have been happy for anyone to explain. I was watching Cavendish as he studied the photo.

  “Grayson?” Rodwell drew my attention to him and I noticed he took a deep breath, letting it out before continuing. “This photo is the message. It is most unusual, but we are being tipped off that a hit has been taken out on the three of you. You see the mark on the back?” I shook my head absently as I was still focusing on his words – ‘a hit’ – assuming they meant what I thought they meant. The photo had done the rounds and he handed it back to me. When I turned it over I saw a small circle with a V and a Z written over each other inside it. I shrugged. It meant nothing to me, and I handed the photo back to Rodwell.

  He studied me for a moment, then asked, “Does the name Zakhar Volkov mean anything to you?”

  “No.” I felt bewildered by the direction this conversation was going in.

  “He is a person of significant interest to the security services, although we have little intelligence on him. We don’t know where he is, or what he looks like. Unfortunately,
however, we do know what he does. This is his mark on the back of the photo. He has been in touch with us since this was received and told us that it was him who delivered the package.” He paused, as if to take a moment to assess what he was about to say. I didn’t take my eyes from him; my breathing was shallow and by consequence I was a little light-headed, but I willed him to continue. I needed to hear it all.

  “He is an assassin, Grayson, and the photo was given to him by his clients as his next hit. The circle around the cross on your chest depicts you as the primary target.”

  The information was coming hard and fast and I felt the blood draining from my head. This was way too much, and I had the horrible feeling there was more to come. My chest was tight and I seemed unable to take a deep breath. I held on to Trent’s hand tightly, feeling my skin becoming clammy and cold with fear. I tried to think clearly. Why was I being targeted? I didn’t need to think long on this: it could only be Orlov. I’d made a fool of him and this was his vengeance. Not man enough to come back to do the job himself, I noted, instead he’d sent someone else to do his dirty work.

  Though hang on a minute. My eyes narrowed in thought and I turned to Rodwell. It was as if he was waiting for me to process the information and come to my own conclusion.

  “Why is he telling you this? Why is he tipping you off?”

  “A very good point, Grayson. Why indeed? And this is where the mystery about you deepens. Volkov sent the photo to us to get our attention and deliver a warning. He has told us he sent the box as a message for you. And although you told us you didn’t know how you knew about the secret compartment, clearly the box awakened some sort of memory for you, enabling you to find it and the photos. I think we can all see the story in the photos and it backs up what Volkov has told us.”

  “Which is what?” I asked, irritated with his hesitation, wanting him to spit it out and at the same time not wanting to hear what was coming next.