'Hear me out, please. I met him, and he tried to kill me.'
'Nick doesn't have a violent bone in his body, and as for the BFA, he would deplore everything they stand for.'
'I know it sounds ludicrous, but I was as close to him as I am to you now. Please, sit down,' Trent implored.
'What is it with you people? All I want is to find my brother. I've had some odd people contact me since I put those posters up, but this is off the scale.'
Trent pulled the folded poster from his pocket and flattened it on the table. 'I don't know what he's done, or why or how you came to lose him, but I swear to God this is the man I saw. Of course, he doesn't look much like that anymore. For a start, he wears his head shaved and doesn't do much smiling.' Lucy was already heading for the door. He had to stop her. 'I can take you to him,' he blurted out
Lucy stopped in her tracks. 'You know where he is?'
'Yes.'
'Where?'
'I can show you. I'll take you there.'
'And why would you do that?'
'Please believe me, I'm not lying. I need to talk to him about the BFA, and I think he'll listen to me if you're there.'
'Goodbye, Mr Garside.'
'The thing is - this picture isn't a terribly good likeness is it? For a start, it doesn't really show his cleft lip.'
Lucy froze halfway out the door.
'It's healed well, but the scar is obvious when you get close.'
Lucy cast a glance over her shoulder, a look of uncertainty on her face. 'Alright, prove it. Take me to him.'
Chapter 46
Blake was frozen to the core. He had spent an uncomfortable night sprawled on his stomach on the damp ground on the ridge overlooking Stoneleigh Cottage. Somewhere above a buzzard screeched as it soared out of the trees and up into the gloomy morning sky to begin its hunt for breakfast. The sun had risen, but was hidden behind a thick blanket of low cloud. In the dip of the valley below, a veil of mist clung to dew-covered tufts of grass.
He had been in position for seven straight hours, waiting for Proctor and Clark to return, but the house had remained empty overnight. The red Renault was missing, and its tracking device had ceased transmitting. With no idea where the men were holed up his concern was growing. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and checked his watch. It was just before eight. He pulled out his phone and dialled a pre-programmed number. It rang twice.
'Where are you?' Patterson's voice sounded strained.
'Back at Stoneleigh, but Proctor and Clark are missing.'
'What about the car?'
'It's gone, and the tracker's failed. Did you have any joy with the sets of plates from the vehicles at the garage?'
'Both stolen as we suspected, and there's nothing to link them directly to the BFA,' said Patterson.
'The truck's being converted to look like a removal van. It'll say County Removers on the side. I think it's their getaway vehicle, which means one of them will attempt to take it to France in the next few days, then we'll know for sure the game's on. Notify the port and ferry companies, and you'd better warn the Border Force too. But let them know they mustn't be stopped. If they think we're onto them, we'll lose them both.'
'Why would they take the van to France in advance?'
'So they have a vehicle inside the port to make their escape once they've set their bomb. If we can find out when it's booked to return, that'll give us a rough idea of the date of the attack. I suspect they'll attempt to book the Mondeo late onto the same ferry as the van returning from France.'
'We've checked out the garage by the way, but we drew a blank. No known criminal connections or links to the BFA.'
'Get it under surveillance. When they move the vehicles we need discreet eyes on them.'
'A team's on standby. There's another ready to pick up Martin Kelly. What about you? What are you going to do now?'
'I'm going to have a poke around the cottage. Phone me the moment you get anything on those vehicles.'
Blake hung up and eased himself to his feet. The muscles along his back, shoulders, and legs all protested. He shuffled back to his makeshift camp, boiled up a mug of coffee, and prepared himself for the trudge down the hill to the cottage.
*
The sash window in the lounge lifted without protest, and although it jammed a third of the way open, the gap was wide enough for Blake to squeeze through. With shower caps on his boots, he moved quickly through the hallway and into the kitchen, which was suspiciously clean. No dirty dishes. No leftover takeaway cartons. Not even so much as a mug left to dry on the draining board.
Blake bounded up the staircase and stormed into Proctor's room. Apart from the stench of stale cigarette smoke, there was no other evidence that anyone had been living there. The bedclothes that had been heaped underneath the window had gone, and the ashtrays and beer cans cleared away. Clark's bedroom was the same. In the bathroom, the only sign of recent habitation was a chalky residue of toothpaste in the basin and a toilet seat left up.
It looked as if the cottage had served its purpose and Proctor and Clark had no intention of returning. Blake cursed himself for a wasted, unpleasant evening watching over an abandoned property. He sat at the top of the stairs and pondered where the men might have taken refuge. Probably another BFA safe house. Most likely near the garage where their vehicles were being prepared. Blake had hoped for another opportunity to debrief Proctor before the attack. There were still key details he was unsure of, let alone a plan to extract Proctor in due course.
The sound of a vehicle approaching interrupted his thoughts. He heard tyres splashing through puddles on the driveway and the low drone of an engine. Finally, the red Renault was returning, Blake thought.
He jumped up, sprang into Proctor's room, and approached the window, keeping in the shadows. A white taxi was pulling up outside, and a man he recognised emerged. A woman stepped out from the back seat, and together they took a moment to survey the outside of the house.
Even though he had been expecting it, the knock on the front door echoed around the empty house and made Blake jump. He weighed up his options and their outcomes, and after a second knock made a decision. His only course of action was to confront the journalist and nip his curiosity in the bud.
'Yes?' said Blake, opening the door.
Trent took a step back, seemingly surprised that Blake had answered. 'We're looking for someone,' Trent stammered.
Blake took a good look at the woman who was standing slightly behind Trent. He noticed her piercing eyes and slight frame, and wondered if she was Trent's photographer. But she had no camera equipment, and besides, he decided she was too smartly dressed.
'I see. Well, can I help?'
'I'm looking for my brother. Does he live here?' the woman piped up.
'Sorry,' said Blake, offering his best apologetic look.
'His name's Nicholas Richards. Nick,' the woman persisted.
Trent tottered forward. 'I've been helping my friend track him down. He's gone missing, but she thought she'd seen him on the Tube.'
'So what makes you think he's here?' asked Blake.
'I'm not sure - ' said Trent.
'Like I said, I don’t know anyone called Nick. You must have the wrong house.' Blake took a step back to close the door.
'Hang on a minute, do I know you?'
Blake froze.
'Your face is familiar. I think we might have met.’
'No, you’re mistaken, I’m afraid,' Blake said, without conviction.
'And you don’t know anything about this woman's brother? He's with the BFA.'
'If you know anything about Nick, please, you must tell me,' Lucy Chapman pleaded, her eyes imploring.
She looked so vulnerable, so desperate.
'I need to know if he's alive. Mr Garside's been trying to tell me that he's involved with the far right, but it seems so out of character. Please?'
There was something about the look in her eye that touched
Blake. It was a sadness, not of someone grieving, but of someone who was battling with the painful conflict of loss and hope. She must have contemplated that her brother was dead, but without proof, she would have been clinging to belief he was still alive. Either way he was lost to her. It was a pain Blake could empathise with. Ever since the disappearance of the only woman he had ever loved.
It had been a long time since his fiancée had disappeared. She had simply vanished as if the ground had opened up beneath her feet. There had been no signs of a forced entry or a struggle at their home, and none of her belongings were missing. It was an impossible conundrum. Suspicion had initially fallen on the IRA, and that maybe she'd been abducted in retribution for his job in Northern Ireland. But then there were so many people who would have wanted to see him suffer that the list of suspects was long. An investigation had been carried out by a Special Forces unit. Informants had been squeezed, and suspects pulled in for interrogation, but there had never been any real leads. No one had ever claimed responsibility and, of course, no one saw anything. It was a revenge of the cruellest kind.
The hunt was eventually scaled back, and Blake was told to face the probability that she was dead. Without knowing what had happened to her, he'd never been able to grieve. He often contemplated her death, but still clung to the hope that she would be found alive and they could carry on with their lives as they had once planned.
'He's alive, but he's not here,' said Blake, at last.
'Oh my God!' Lucy's knees buckled and she threw her hands to her face. Trent grabbed her elbow.
'He's fine, but as Mr Garside quite rightly said, your brother does have an involvement with the British Freedom Alliance, although it's not quite as straightforward as it seems. I'm afraid I can't tell you anymore. I'm sorry.'
'Where is he? Can I speak to him?'
'Not at the moment. I don't know where he is, but he's involved in something extremely serious. Look, I work for a government agency that is investigating the organisation. Maybe soon we can arrange for you to see him, but I need to know I can trust you first. We're talking about a matter of national security.'
'What do you mean?'
'I can't tell you anymore. I'm sorry.'
'He's my brother. I have a right to see him.'
'And you will. But not right now. You wouldn't recognise him right now anyway.'
Trent had remained silent, taking it all in. 'You're with MI5 aren't you? Right, well I want to be there when they're reunited and I want the full background story too. It's the least you two owe me.'
'You'll get the exclusive, but you have to stop digging around the BFA. I'll tell you everything you want to know, but only on that agreement. Give me your numbers and wait for my call. Be ready to move quickly. I won't be able to give you much notice. I'll give you a location and I'll bring your brother to you. Go home now. Sit tight, and wait for my call.'
Lucy seemed about to say something else, but thought better of it. They rattled off their contact details, which Blake plugged straight into his phone.
'Come on, let's go.' Trent ushered her back to the waiting taxi, and Blake watched them leave.
When the car had disappeared down the drive, he stepped back inside and closed the door. He checked around for any incriminating sign of his presence then slipped out the front window. He drew it closed behind him, and set off back up the hill to the copse on the ridge.
Chapter 47
The journey home to London passed in a blur. Lucy sat in the back of the taxi watching the world flash by as Trent made small talk with the driver. She was buzzing with questions, but when she tried quizzing Trent, he seemed reluctant to talk, almost paranoid about being overheard. When they arrived in the city, she tried one last time and suggested they went for a drink. Trent hesitated, then proposed going to his flat.
It was cold and gloomy and tainted with cooking smells. He left her standing awkwardly by the front door while he fussed about clearing dirty dishes and sweeping up newspapers and scraps of A4 paper scrawled with spidery handwriting. Finally, he poured her a large Pinot Grigio into a smudged glass from an open bottle in the fridge, before hobbling into his bedroom with a mumbled apology.
While she waited, Lucy inspected a shelving unit filled to overflowing with books of all sizes, mostly obscure biographies about people she had never heard of and fat historical tomes from a range of eras. But interestingly, no fictional works. A towering metal CD holder that arched and twisted like a piece of modern sculpture stood next to the bookcase with scores of albums stacked in slots that looked like teeth. She scanned the spines, but struggled to find more than a few bands that she recognised.
A cat brushed against her leg, as she was halfway along the rack, curling her body around Lucy's calves and flicking her tail. When Lucy knelt to caress the back of her head, she was rewarded with an excited purr.
'I see you've found Tabs,' said Trent, returning the room.
'Tabs?'
'Tabitha. She lives here with me.'
'Actually, she found me,' said Lucy, standing.
Trent shuffled into the kitchen dragging his leg. He took the wine bottle from the fridge, topped up Lucy's glass, and poured one for himself.
'I guess I ought to thank you,' said Lucy.
'It's okay.'
'How did you know about Nick? Until a few days ago, I was beginning to believe he was dead. I've travelled halfway around the world looking for him, probably at the cost of my marriage. Then, out of the blue, I find out he's not only alive, but he's caught up with some fascist lunatics. Where did you see him?'
Trent hung his head and stared into his glass. 'I can see this has been a bit of a shock for you.'
'There's an understatement. I always had a feeling that Nick was alive, but this is something else. Please tell me what you know about him.'
'I don't know where to start.'
'Try the beginning. You said earlier that you were investigating the BFA. Why?'
'Because a few years ago they were nothing but a small time bunch of bigoted thugs. Now they're a highly-organised political force threatening to steal power at all levels across the country.'
'So what?'
'Something must have changed. They're still a bunch of bigoted thugs, but now they have money, which has paid for a fairly unconvincing makeover. I wanted to know where the money's coming from,' said Trent. 'So I went digging. You ever heard of Larry Hopper? He's an American billionaire.'
'The guy who was heckled at the Oxford Union?'
'I think he's the one with the big chequebook.'
Lucy unzipped a pair of knee-length black boots and sat on Trent's old sofa, curling her legs up under her body. He noticed she had carefully painted each one of her toenails bright red. 'So what's this got to do with Nick?'
Trent explained how he'd managed to trick his way on board Larry Hopper's yacht. 'But I got caught,' he said, sloshing the remnants of his wine around the bottom of his glass. 'And that's when I saw your brother.'
'On the yacht?'
'Look, Lucy, you're not going to like this, but you need to hear it. From what I can tell, your brother is acting like some kind of minder for Longhurst. I stumbled into this meeting, and Nick and this other guy dragged me off, took me below deck and - '
'And what exactly?'
'Well, how do you think I did this?' Trent nodded to the cast on his foot. 'Your brother broke it in two places because I wasn't quick enough telling him my name.'
The colour drained from Lucy's face. 'Nick did that to you?'
'And worse. He threatened to smash my hand with a meat mallet, then force-fed me with a bottle of brandy and threw me overboard expecting that I'd drown.'
'Except you didn't, obviously.'
'No. I thought I was going to die, but...'
'And you're quite sure it was Nick, because it doesn't sound like him at all,' said Lucy.
'He looks different now, but he was right in my face. There's no mistake, I'm sorry.'
>
'That MI5 man said Nick was involved in a matter of national security. What was he talking about?'
'That's what I'd like to find out. Presumably they have some intelligence on Longhurst and Hopper.'
'Yes, I expect so,' said Lucy. She brushed her fringe out of her eyes. 'You only called me because you thought I was your ticket into this story, didn't you?'
'Of course not,' Trent protested. 'Well, maybe a little. I thought if I could reunite the two of you, you could persuade Nick to talk to me, to tell me what was going on in the BFA.'
'You bloody journalists, you're all the same. Never mind what I might be going through.'
'It's not like that.'
'So what is it like?'
'Lucy, I want to help.'
'When I thought I'd lost Nick it was as if someone had stolen a little bit of my soul. But I couldn't grieve because I clung to this hope that he was still alive. And now this. What am I supposed to do now?'
'Lucy, I'm so sorry. I didn't really think.'
'No, you didn't, did you?'
'At least you know he's alive, and you'll see him again soon. That's good news isn't it?'
'Maybe. Who knows? All I have is what you've told me, and the word of some spook who says he's investigating Nick for his involvement in the BFA. What's he going to be like when I do meet him? They must have brainwashed him. He might not even recognise me.' A tear rolled down Lucy's cheek, leaving an inky black trail of eyeliner.
'It's going to be alright,' said Trent, sitting and taking her hands in his. 'You should be happy. We've found your brother.'
'It's too much to take in.'
'Tell me about him.'
'Nick? What do you care?'
'Tell me about when he went missing.'
'To this day, I don't know much about it. He was at university, but he was struggling, trying to live in my shadow when he should have been doing his own thing. We asked too much of him.'
'We?'
'Me and mum. She wanted the best for him, but he wasn't academic. Not really. He fell in with the wrong crowd, spent most his time and money out drinking, and at the end of his first year he failed most of his exams. Mum read him the riot act as if he were a six year old. But you know, ever since dad died, she's been on her own and doing her best to bring up two kids. It was tough on her too. I guess Nick thought he'd earned some freedom when he went off to college and didn't appreciate mum sticking her nose into his business. It ended in a horrible row, and Nick stormed out, telling us not to bother trying to contact him again. And that was it. Mum stopped funding him, and we never saw him again.