'We both thought it would blow over. You know, he and mum can both be a bit hot-headed, but he cut off all ties with both of us and made it quite clear he didn't want to be contacted.'
'And you never heard from him again?' asked Trent.
'Only the once. Several months later, he called out of the blue to speak to mum. He said he was sorry for everything and that he was going travelling to sort out his head. He had a ticket for Brazil and was due to fly to Rio the next day. He promised to call when he landed, to let us know he was safe. But he never made the call.'
'What did you do?'
'We tried everyone we could think of; the Foreign Office, the police, the Brazilian authorities, but no one was that bothered about helping us. You know, a few people made sympathetic noises, but that was it. The trail went cold and we never found out anything else. They told mum to prepare for the worst, and that he was probably dead. She seemed to be able to cope better than me, and accepted that we'd never see Nick again.
'That day I saw Nick on the Tube, I'd just returned from Rio, but it was a wild goose chase. I spent most of my time rowing with my husband.'
'I'm sorry,' said Trent.
'Don't be. I dumped him at the airport, but we'd been having problems for months. It just brought it to a head.'
'So you didn't make any headway in Brazil?'
'No, and the weird thing is that we couldn't find any evidence that he had ever even arrived.'
'That's odd.'
'We had a meeting at the Brazilian Embassy before we went, and they were adamant that Nick was never in the country. But we checked with the airline, and they say they have records that he was definitely booked on the flight. And now he turns up in London. I'm so confused.'
Lucy leaned across the sofa and rested her head on Trent's shoulder. Unsure how to react, he reached up and stroked her hair, drinking in the smell of her perfume.
'It's going to be okay, you know. We'll sort it out. Don't worry.'
Chapter 48
Walking into the reception of an anonymous-looking hotel on the outskirts of Dover, Blake was conscious that he looked a wreck. He'd come straight from the cottage in Nutwick, and couldn't remember the last time he'd showered or taken a bath. His hair was matted and his face was covered in thick stubble. The receptionist, wearing too much make-up and her hair scraped back tightly in a bun, looked him up and down as if weighing up whether he was a vagrant chancing his luck. Blake flashed her a broad smile.
'Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?'
'I need a room for a few nights.' Blake pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped it open so the receptionist could see the assortment of credit cards lined up inside. 'And to be honest, I'm desperate for a bath.'
As the receptionist tapped Blake's details into a computer, he noticed her long fingernails, painted a deep maroon and looking suspiciously fake. She handed him an electronic credit card shaped key wrapped inside a little folder and directed him along a corridor past the lifts.
The room was identical in layout to a hundred he had stayed in before. A simple bathroom led off a short hallway, opposite a wooden wardrobe. The bedroom was small but functional. There was a desk with a chair, a luggage stand, and trouser press fixed to the wall. A comfy-looking double bed had been made up neatly with a green floral bedspread.
Blake dropped his travel bag on the stand and ran a bath, savouring the thought of the warm water easing his tired muscles as the tap gurgled and spluttered. While he waited, he laid out a razor and shaving foam by the sink then stripped out of his dirty clothes. He wiped the steam from the mirror with a fluffy white towel and examined the weary face staring back at him. His cheeks were sallow and his eyes sunken in deep, dark pits.
When the bath was only half-full he eased himself in, wincing as the scalding water stung his skin. He left the tap on and turned it off with his toes only when the level threatened to spill over the top. Then he laid his head back and let the heat penetrate every sinew, ligament, muscle, and bone until he began to feel human again.
He remained motionless for almost thirty minutes, by which time the water was growing cold. He dried himself with a towel and wrapped it around his waist while he shaved. The hairs on his chin had grown so long that they snagged on the razor and twice he nicked the skin. He ambled back into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.
It was dark when he woke, startled by a loud trill. He glanced at the red numbers on the alarm clock by the side of the bed.
2:53am.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and snatched his mobile phone as it vibrated across the desk.
'Yes?'
'We've got a crossing for the van,' said Patterson. 'It was booked within the last hour. The ferry company alerted us.
'When?'
'Lunchtime.'
'Today?'
'Yes. They're on the 12:55 ferry.'
'When is it booked to return?' Blake was suddenly aware that his exposed chest and upper arms were cold, chilled by the air conditioning that had kicked in while he was asleep.
'First thing the day after on a boat that's due in at around eleven,' said Patterson.
'What about the vehicles? Have they been moved?'
'Not yet. They're both still in the garage. There are teams surrounding the building and they've reported positive IDs on Proctor and Clark.'
'Any booking for the Mondeo?'
'No, but the ferry companies have been given the details. They'll flag it the moment a booking's made. We should know very quickly.'
'What about tactical teams?'
'All in hand. The South East Counter Terrorism Unit has been fully briefed, and will have armed officers covering the port when we need them. I'm assured they can provide a ring of steel.'
'I'll still need to get Proctor out, unharmed.'
'Do you have a plan?'
'I need a car. Something nondescript and non-traceable left near the port. Can you sort it?'
'Of course. What about Clark?'
'Once he's on board, I'll pick him up, but I'll need a diversion to get Proctor out.'
'I'm sure we can think of something.'
'It's imperative that the police don't get him. We have a duty to extract him safely.'
'Do you think I don't know that, Blake? While you've been playing action man in the field it's me who's been taking the heat.'
'Just don't screw this up.'
Chapter 49
Through the deep haze of sleep, a noise pervaded Lucy's dreams. A relentless throbbing that wouldn't stop. She forced open an eye, and realised she had no idea where she was. The lank curtains with dated floral patterns were as unfamiliar to her as the striped duvet. Her mouth was dry, and the distant pounding of a white wine hangover surfaced from deep inside her head. She rolled over. Trent was sleeping deeply, perfectly at peace and totally unmoved by the noise.
She scrambled around the discarded items of clothing on the floor and eventually found her phone, but didn't recognise the number that flashed up in the display. 'Hello?'
'Mrs Chapman?' She felt a pang of guilt at hearing her married name. 'This is Tom Blake. We spoke yesterday at the cottage?'
Lucy sat bolt upright, clutching the duvet to her chest. Trent stirred. 'Yes, yes. What is it?'
'If you want to see your brother, you need to head for Kent. Wait in the services at Gillingham on the M2.'
Lucy shook Trent's shoulder. As he slowly roused into consciousness, she repeated the instructions aloud.
'Be there in two hours. Wait for me and don't move. Is that clear?'
'Absolutely. We'll be there.'
*
Blake dropped his phone into the pocket of the dark overalls that hung loosely over his muscular frame even when they were pulled over his body armour. It was a standard one-size fits-all design finished off with a yellow fluorescent vest so that he fitted in with the other dockers around the port. From his position in the cab of a forklift truck, he had a good view across an expanse
of hard standing where the lanes were marked out with solid white lines and numbered sequentially from his left to his right. Queues of cars, vans, and lorries were parked facing the towering steel stanchions that indicated each of the ferry berths. Two ships were already in port. Blake had watched with fascination as each one manoeuvred into its moorings with inch-perfect accuracy and minutes later spewed out a flow of traffic.
A handheld radio crackled on the dashboard of the forklift, next to Blake's Browning 9mm.
'Blake, are you there?' said Patterson.
'In position near the back of lane one-three-two.'
'We're set and ready, just waiting on the arrival of Proctor and Clark. We have eyes on Proctor's ferry. It's making its approach to the harbour and should be offloading within ten minutes. Standby.'
Blake threw the radio back onto the dashboard and grabbed a pair of binoculars from by his feet. He watched the funnel of the ferry move slowly from the Channel into the horseshoe-shaped harbour. Then he scanned the rooftops of the surrounding buildings and counted at least a dozen police snipers in position with their rifle sights trained towards the moorings. They were exposed to anyone walking along the top of the famous White Cliffs, but it was unlikely Proctor or Clark would spot them. Blake also knew that there were scores of undercover officers scattered throughout the port, and teams of uniformed rapid response units in marked cars hidden out of sight. On his command, the whole port would light up with law enforcement officers armed to the teeth.
It was only a matter of being patient and waiting for the right time.
*
Inside the port control room on the eastern harbour arm, Patterson could almost reach out and touch the ferry as it drifted lazily past. The control tower was a four-storey construction with angled windows that gave three hundred and sixty degree views of the Channel, the port, and the cliffs. A row of desks groaning with banks of computer screens relaying real-time information about shipping movements, weather, and tides faced the sea.
'Well, this looks like it. Hope your man's got his facts right,' said Assistant Chief Constable Clive Smitherman-Banks who was leading the South East Counter Terrorism Unit.
'In many ways I hope he's got it wrong,' said Patterson.
'Well, quite. At least we're ready for them.' Smitherman-Banks was a trim man with a twinkle in his eye and more than twenty-five years' experience. Something of the old seadog about him, thought Patterson.
The ACC picked up a radio to address the response teams on the ground. 'Standby everyone. The Dawn Spirit is making its final approach into the harbour. Remember, we're looking for a maroon van and a single white male. I want a positive ID. Await my command for further instructions.'
As he replaced the handset on a desk, he spoke with a port controller sitting at one of the computers. 'And news yet on the Ford?'
'It's not checked in yet,' he said.
Smitherman-Banks shot Patterson a look, which the colonel ignored. 'Maybe your man's wrong after all.'
*
The Dawn Spirit's final approach seemed to take an age. Blake had driven the forklift close to a service ramp and waited as the captain edged the ferry into its berth, while dockers and ferrymen scurried around tying off ropes and preparing the vessel for a quick turnaround. Eventually, the first of the vehicles appeared and rolled onto the harbour apron.
First came a convoy of articulated lorries, which thundered and rattled across the gangway, mostly foreign-registered trucks from Poland, Holland, and France, although some had travelled from farther in Europe and even the former Eastern Bloc. A handful were British vehicles returning home.
Once the lorries had been cleared from the decks, a slow procession of cars and vans followed, a ragtag assortment of vehicles of varying age, size and colour. There were businessmen travelling in smart saloons, older couples in campervans, families with luggage boxes strapped to their roofs, and an array of commercial vans. But no sign of the maroon Mercedes van.
Blake jumped down from the forklift with a growing sense of unease, fearing he'd missed Proctor as the last of the vehicles rolled down the ramp and disappeared. He slipped the Browning into a holster under his overalls, grabbed the radio, and jogged up the ramp.
'Is that all of them?' he asked the first crew member he found.
'Yep,' the man said.
'I was looking for a maroon van. Are you sure that's not still on board?'
'Let me check, hang on.' The man spoke to a colleague by radio. Blake heard the response for himself. The ship was clear and getting ready for the next crossing. On the apron, a woman in an oversized fluorescent jacket waved a queue of cars forward.
'Patterson, it's Blake,' he shouted into his radio. 'The van wasn't on board the Dawn Spirit.'
'Are you absolutely sure?' Patterson's disembodied voice hissed over static.
'Positive. Can you double check that the van cleared the border controls in Calais.'
'I'll get back to you.'
Blake returned to the cab of the forklift truck, dodging the fast flowing stream of cars rolling up the ramp onto the ferry. He began to ponder the possibility that Proctor had switched vehicles in France to avoid detection, and cursed himself for not thinking of the possibility earlier.
'Blake, this is Patterson. We have confirmation that Proctor and the van cleared border controls in France. He must have missed the boat for some reason.'
'Right, okay.' In the background, Blake could hear phones ringing amid an excited hubbub. 'What's going on up there, Harry?'
'I'm not sure. Something's going on.' Patterson fell silent.
'Harry, are you there? What's going on?'
Silence.
'Harry? Talk to me.' Blake had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. 'Harry, for Christ's sake answer me.'
'Blake, it's not good. Something's kicking off. They're pulling all the response units out. We're on our own.'
Chapter 50
It was late morning when Lucy and Trent arrived at the motorway services. A taxi dropped them near the entrance, and while Trent paid, Lucy ambled inside out of the cold. She was wearing the previous day's clothes, and although she had managed a tepid bath at Trent's flat, she still felt grubby. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and needed a wash. Two paracetamol had eased her hangover, but her stomach was unsettled. She checked her watch and waited for Trent, who hobbled in swinging himself along on his crutches.
'Coffee?' he said.
She nodded and helped him climb a set of steps to a burger restaurant that bridged the motorway. Lucy sent Trent to find a table and ordered for them both. When she returned with two steaming cardboard cups, he was staring out the window at the traffic below.
'Listen, about last night,' he said.
'It's okay, you don't need to say anything.'
'I didn't want you to think I was trying to take advantage.'
Lucy reached across the table to take his hand and saw him notice the platinum rings on her left hand, an uncomfortable reminder for him that he had spent the night with a married woman. As if either of them needed reminding.
'You didn't take advantage. It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't wanted it to,' said Lucy, but she couldn't help but think it wouldn't have happened if not for the two bottles of wine they'd polished off.
Trent nodded. 'Fine,' he said. 'So what did the MI5 guy say exactly?'
'To meet him here and not to move.'
'Do you think he'll bring Nick?' asked Trent, raising his eyebrows.
'Who knows? We're in his hands now though, aren't we?'
They sipped their coffees watching the traffic flow in steady streams, caught in an awkward silence, which was finally interrupted by a sound from Trent's pocket. He grabbed for his phone, grateful for the distraction. Lucy watched him screw up his face in concentration. 'Lucy, something's going on. Twitter's going mad about some incident in Canterbury.'
'That's not far, is it?'
'Less than an hour away. I wonder if t
his has something to do with your brother.'
'Why do you say that?'
'The cathedral's been cordoned off and there's a big police presence. Hang on, someone else is saying smoke's coming from inside the building.'
'What's that got to do with Nick?'
'I don't know, maybe nothing. But the MI5 guy said Nick was involved in something to do with national security. Maybe he meant a terrorist attack?'
'Are you mad?'
Trent placed his phone on the table and rubbed his eyes. When he looked up at Lucy, she saw something in his expression that chilled her to the core. 'Trent? What is it?'
'There's something I've not told you.'
'What do you mean?'
'Your brother, Nick, there's no easy way to say this.'
'For pity's sake, spit it out, Trent.'
'I think Nick is involved with a secret sect that's working for the BFA, called the Phineas Priests.' He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it back. 'It's a group that started in America, linked to Larry Hopper. The FBI suspects they're responsible for a number of attacks in the States, and I think MI5 are looking at the possibility that Nick is involved in something similar here.'
'You're insane.'
'And what if that something similar is an attack on Canterbury Cathedral? It would all make sense. They were planning this attack all along.'
'You don't know there's an attack on the cathedral. It's probably just a coincidence.'
'With that many police? I don't think so, and I reckon Nick's behind this. Lucy, I don't have all the answers, but right now, my gut instinct tells me I'm onto something. Look,' he showed her his phone. 'It's going crazy. Some people are saying there was an explosion. That's got to be a bomb.'
'Stop it.'
'Come on,' Trent stood up and grabbed his crutches. 'Let's go.'
'Go where?'
'To Canterbury. This is going to be massive. We've got to be there.'
'No.'
'What?'
'Trent, I'm not going.'
'Why not?'
'Because the instructions were quite clear. We weren't to move from here whatever happened.'