‘Don’t let me down, lad.’
The black cab slowed as it approached the old man and quickly tucked into the side of the road on double red lines. The driver knew they meant never; never park, never stop, never even think about it. He hoped his passenger knew the law as well as he did. The last time he’d seen him was at his retirement function, greying hair, grey beard but bucketloads of youthful exuberance and a magnetic personality.
The cab stopped, the old man turned and opened the door, sat down and the cab drove away. It was seamless. One minute to go.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He checked the Omega with its brown, creased leather strap and dependable second hand that swept silently around the gold face. Any second now. He did a quick sweep of his surroundings, then sat back and tried to relax.
“Where to, sir?”
“Wherever you feel I need to go.”
The eyes that looked back at him from the rear-view mirror were also smiling. The driver was difficult to age; he had youthful looks despite a stellar career with the government and a few run-ins with some very unpleasant people. Blue eyes that occasionally faded to grey, a glint of silver in his head of brown hair and chiselled looks made him a win with the ladies and often, on first meeting, a figure of contempt with the men.
The son of Foreign Office rising stars, he had travelled the world with them, watched them grow as people and as parents. He’d lived the high-life in Europe and Africa and South East Asia. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about the games that were played at embassies and consular locations. Some called him slightly swarthy, but the women enjoyed his company for as long as they could hold his attention.
He’d been off the radar for a while. Not exactly in hiding, but hardly on the front page of Horse & Hound either. He knew Cade and the team very well. They, too, had had their moments, but all was well in the ‘hood – as they said in circles that he wouldn’t be seen slightly injured in, let alone dead.
And now he was back in the game, sponsored as always by someone he rarely met – as long as his verbal expense claims were met, there was no need. And his past claims had been at times on the high side.
‘Quite why you think you can claim for that is beyond me,’ said the faceless voice one Thursday.
“Why? Because I sir am Johnathan P Hewett, Foreign Office exemplar and all-round nice guy with the biggest set of bollocks in Whitehall, that’s why!”
The rear passenger exhaled, then leaned forward and spoke quietly into the large Perspex screen that separated him from the driver.
“Are we being recorded?”
“No. I’ve seen to it that your entire journey will be trouble-free, sir.”
Denby smirked. “What happened to you, lad? You were a boy last time I saw you.”
“And your lieutenant commander had brown hair.” Touché.
“Never mind that, Johnnie. How’s the folks?”
“We lost Dad.”
“I’m genuinely sorry to hear that, son. He was a great man. I’d have been lost without him in The Gambia. Boy, we had some interesting nights down there! And Mum?”
“Clinging to life, living in France. The dementia took a hold and now she is a shell of her former self, a body waiting to die and a mind not knowing when that should be…” He trailed off.
“A stunning woman, your mother. You should be proud of what she achieved, John, not what she has become. Dementia is a life sentence for the family. I’ve got it apparently.”
“So I heard. Amazing what a well-trusted doctor can write up these days.”
“True. But I am very ill, John. I’ve not got long.”
“Roughly?”
“A month, maybe weeks.”
“And yet you want to go on the hunt once more?”
“I do. And I will. As long as I can change this bloody bag that’s strapped to my leg now and then I’ll be fine. So where are we heading?”
“Somewhere I know, somewhere you do too. And hopefully a place that you can operate from in relative safety. That hair colour suits you, by the way. Takes years off you. I might try it in thirty years.”
“By the look of your temples, I’d think about it now if I were you.”
“Respectfully, Lieutenant Commander…”
“I deserved that, didn’t I?”
“You did. Anyway, the stuff you ordered is in the bag next to you.”
He turned left and headed south of the river.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The detective checked his watch too, paced a little, then re-entered the river-view room. It was quiet except for the noise of the running water. Twenty minutes? He liked a hot shower with the best of them, even longer with the delectable DS McGee. But, twenty minutes?
He knocked on the door, best not enter, give the old warrior some privacy after all, at that age they probably had to do things. He had no idea what, but he assumed and left it a minute before knocking again.
“Mr. Denby?”
Nothing. Just the sound of the hot water hitting the shower tray.
“Mr. Denby?” He knocked harder now.
OK. What should he do? He checked his phone. No calls. Scanned the room. Nothing out of the ordinary. The windows were locked. He banged on the door.
“Sod this. If he’s fallen over, I’ll be in the shit.”
He pressed six on his phone.
“It’s me. I think the old bugger’s had a fall in the shower. Can you come up and give me a hand, I’m about to kick the door in.”
“What happens if it hits him in the head?” Great, this was no time for common sense.
“OK. Any other ideas, Sherlock?”
“I’ve got a Gerber.”
“What do you propose, removing the stone from a horse’s hoof?”
“No, I thought we’d use the screwdriver to open the lock. I’ll be up in two.”
The black cab was six miles away, making progress and absorbing itself into the ever-moving painting that was the London landscape. He knew they would have opened the door by now. He would have done it ten minutes ago.
“Ready?” asked the red-haired younger officer.
“Yep. Open her up,” replied the one tasked with guarding the old sailor.
“Bloody hell, it’s like a sauna.” They wafted their hands around, trying to disperse the steam.
“Mr. Denby? You OK in there? We didn’t want you to shrivel up! Just checking you haven’t had a fall?” It seemed so patronising for a man who had fought the might of the German armed forces as a teenager.
The steam evaporated, and soon they were afforded a better view.
“Oh, no.” The voice of the protection officer.
“Where the hell is he?” His colleague.
Neither wanted to admit that he had gone.
“Well, he hasn’t slipped down the bastard plug hole, has he? He’s gone.” He looked around, pointlessly opened the vanity unit and then looked up as the vapour finally revealed the ceiling.
“Shit. Shit. And double shit!” He dialled four on his cell phone. “I’ve got no choice but to ring this in.”
“Agreed. What are you going to say? He’s been kidnapped?”
“No. I’m going to tell the truth. Get onto the hotel manager and find out what’s up there. Now!”
He looked at his phone. It had connected.
“Hello…” Bridie McGee was waiting for the conversation to end. She obviously knew who the caller was.
“Skipper, it’s me.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m the DS and you…”
“Skipper, please, respectfully, shut up a minute and listen.”
She pulled a face, wrinkled her nose slightly. Rankled but willing to give the benefit of the doubt she said, laughing, “OK, go ahead, what have you done to him?”
“I’ve done nothing, boss. But he’s managed to escape.” Silence.
“I’ll ring you back.” McGee hung up and ran to the main office.
“Where’s the guv?”
“Try his office.” She walked when she wanted to run again. She got to the smaller office with its solid wooden door and its view of another faceless building.
She walked in without knocking.
“Bridie. How lovely…” He’d seen that face before. “What?”
“Caspar has gone.”
“Close the door.” He sat back in his leather chair, turned it around to face out of the window and blew air across his lips.
“How gone?”
McGee was an English scholar and the phrase caused a mild shudder. But she knew this was neither the time nor the place to correct her boss.
“As in, very gone. The boys went to check on him as he was having a shower – which to be fair to them guv is completely normal. And when they got into the bathroom he’d vanished. Actually, to be accurate, he’d climbed through the loft hatch and got into an old storeroom above the bedroom.”
“Cunning old bastard. He knew which room he wanted, made the hotel move him, the bastard! He knew all along. Have we checked the storeroom?”
“Yes, within about ten minutes – they struggled to find a way in, turns out it’s not been used in years…and…”
“And what. This is not allowed to get any worse, Sergeant McGee.”
“And they found a sink, with some recent evidence of hair dye.”
“Brilliant, he’s changed his hair colour.”
“And he’s shaved his beard off, that was in the sink too.”
Roberts rang hung up and rang Cade. “Jack, where are you?”
“I am in the bar with your lead analyst having a well-earned G and T. And very nice it is too.”
“You’d better make it a double, Jack. Do you know what your man looks like with brown hair and without a beard?”
“Ridiculous question, Jason, no. Does anyone?”
“Well, it might be useful to find out quickly. Caspar has gone. He’s bloody well gone, Jack.”
Cade hung up and ran, with O’Shea downing her drink and following him. He took the stairs. She waited for the lift. She’d never seen him react to an offer like that before. He must be keen.
She joined him at the room. “Jack. What’s happened?”
“Caspar has gone.”
“Who?”
He realised she had not been briefed on that part.
“It’s a long story, Carrie.”
Caspar was the oldest of the Magi, the Three Wise Men, that had visited the birthplace of Jesus Christ. He was white-haired with a beard and brought a gift of gold. Cade had chosen the name as Denby had left the Wise Man Hospice for the last time. It seemed appropriate.
What the team needed now was an angel and an all-seeing one at that.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Greenwich, London
The cab pulled into a small entranceway in a row of Georgian homes that faced out onto Greenwich Park. The six-bedroomed property was in need of a subtle makeover, but still attracted a price of at least a million and a half pounds. It had been owned by the same family for a hundred and five years, cherished as an heirloom and handed down to its current owner, who had until recently rented it out for a sizeable monthly amount.
He hadn’t lived there for a while but always enjoyed returning to the family home. It was a rarity in the area, in that it had three parking places at the rear, and a secluded garden.
He stood now and watched from the full height white painted window.
In the street Hewett took a quick look around, didn’t see any threats and helped Denby out and ushered him to the front door which was open. They walked in and up a flight of stairs.
The house was furnished in a style that allowed it to retain its period charm. The room that the two men entered was painted in an authentic mustard colour which highlighted the fireplace and ornate panelling and cornicing. The large sash windows were draped in dark curtains that afforded a view across into the park.
Stood at the window was a distinctive man who was dressed well and had a bearing that was hard to emulate. Experience did that to a man.
He turned and faced Denby. He was holding a crystal glass which had the remains of a Laphroaig malt. He shook his head.
“Well, well. It’s so very good to see you, Tom. Too early for a malt?”
“Well, I’m sure the sun is over the yard arm somewhere in the world, young man. Why not – and my driver too?”
“Not for me, thank you. I need to get the car back to its rightful owner in one piece later.”
“Help yourself to anything else, Johnnie?”
Denby joined the house owner and took the glass and clashed it, making a pitch perfect note.
“It’s bloody good to see you again too, lad.” They shook hands warmly. Denby put his glass down onto a small table. Indicating to the man to do the same.
“It’s not often a lieutenant commander gets to hug a chief inspector. Come here.”
The two men hugged and held each other for a moment.
“You are looking well JD.”
John Daniel held his glass up once more and took a sip of the refill.
“And you, sir. Come on, I’ve got you a room and some clothes. By the looks of you they’ll fit and you don’t look a day over sixty now with that new hairdo!”
“Cheeky bugger, I was aiming for fifty.”
“We’ve got this grand old place for a month. I’ve got new tenants moving in then. Lynne didn’t want me to sell it when we emigrated to New Zealand, so I kept it, as a bolt hole, for old time’s sake.”
“And a fair investment it is too, John,” said Hewett, sipping on a Coke.
“You’ll never lose on London properties, Johnathan. You are looking rested too. Certainly different to the last time we met.”
“That is so true, JD. A brutal night indeed. I did wonder if our paths would cross again, but when I got your call I was more than happy to help.”
“Now, do you need anything else for this evening, Tom. Other than clothes?” asked Daniel reverently, as if he was caring for a love one.
“Just the invitation, JD.”
“And you are sure you are up to this. Think it’s still a good idea?”
“How else am I to identify the men responsible for so many atrocities?”
“Then so be it, but please know I think it is way too risky.”
He looked at Hewett.
“I agree JD but I’ve already had this discussion with Tom.”
“There must be other people who can help,” Daniel asked, almost sounding desperate. The man was ninety, for God’s sake. He worried about him.
“Only if they are in their late seventies and invited to the Consular function to celebrate fifty-eight years of independence. I just hope if they are there they don’t recognise me first.”
“Well, to be honest, you shocked me when I saw you getting out of the cab. I wouldn’t have recognised you at all.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me. Shall we go and try on the dinner jacket?”
“Dinner first? I’ve got something tantalising in the oven.”
“Well, it would be rude not to. Only if Johnnie can join us.”
“I’d be delighted. A chance to catch up some real war stories.”
Roberts and McGee arrived at the hotel. They took the lift and met O’Shea at the door to the room.
“He’s ninety,” said Roberts to the room, pointing at the loft hatch. “How the bloody hell did he get up into there?”
“More’s to the point, how did he know it was there?”
“That part is easier,” said Cade. “He was never going to forget this place and the paperwork that he concealed in the wall.”
“But I thought he was senile?” asked Roberts.
“No. I fear not Jason. PTSD, yes, but not senile. Seriously ill yes, very. But our Mr. Denby is as bright as a button. It feels like the man upstairs has given him a few weeks of clarity, and that might cause us a few issues. What we need to do now is work out where he is going to head next a
nd why.”
Cade looked around the room for a clue, for anything that might help them, but he knew he was dealing with a professional – old he may be, but he hadn’t forgotten his tradecraft.
“Could we get one of our techs to run his last known picture and then get them to Photoshop it back to a younger man, perhaps?” asked McGee.
“Great idea Bridie, however, do we have a recent picture of him?” Cade feared he knew the answer.
“OK. Let’s get this right team. We are looking for a ninety-year-old that could look half his age, in a city of millions, and he’s headed in an unknown direction to do what, we have no bloody idea. Fair summary?” Roberts looked exasperated. There was no point in berating his staff, they had acted in good faith.
“Except we do have some component parts, Jason. We know he needs to find the remaining people on that list,” said Cade, trying to be upbeat.
“And do what, Jack, kill them all with a poison-tipped dart?”
“That I don’t know, however, he also needs to find the last of the trafficked people. He said once he’d done that he would be happy to go and meet his maker.”
“That bit I don’t understand mate. What are ten, no, nine people going to do to help him?”
“He mentioned the boat, the Albatross, so far we haven’t found it, so we can assume that is long gone, but he also mentioned a coded system that they used and that only he had the method of de-coding it. But what that relates to is anyone’s business.” Cade walked to the window and looked out at the activity on the Thames.
“Right, in true detective parlance, let’s look at what we know.” Roberts counted on his fingers.
“One, we have people from West Africa in town, some dead, stuffed with diamonds and cocaine and some very much alive. And Jack and I had a little run in with a group today.” O’Shea frowned at Cade. She got a reply that said, ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Roberts continued, “Some of this is possibly connected, possibly not. Two, we have a retired old sailor at death’s door wanting to right some wrongs that he says are connected to the British government and the British military. Three, we have something to do with padlocks, no idea on that score, and four our missing piece of the jigsaw is now…missing – and God himself might not even know where he has gone. For now, I’ve got forty-eight hours to convince my pain in the arse manager that we are onto something that affects the city and impacts on our crime stats.”
The Angel of Whitehall Page 22