TWENTY-TWO

Jay asked Sofie to google Colin Hutton and Leo Roberts. Both men were dead. It was at that point she suggested they take a break, but while Tom and Sofie headed back to the kitchen, Jay googled the remaining names to find that – aside from Emilie – each person was dead.

James Draper had died within three days of contracting a virulent and unidentified virus. Madeleine Gal had died of a heart attack. Colin Hutton and Leo Roberts had also suffered fatal heart attacks. Anne Matus had been overtaken by a strange virus, along with Richard Huller. Gregory Ergin and Thomas Campion had both also died of heart attacks. And poor Emilie was in a coma, fighting for her life against an unknown virus.

Aside from Blake’s sister, nobody had lived more than a week after the date the code had been sent.

‘My God.’ Jay leaned back, her skin tingling. ‘My God.’

She was still feeling unsteady when she returned to the kitchen. Tom was boiling spaghetti while Sofie stirred onions in a pan. When Jay murmured her findings to Tom, he said, ‘Christ. I’ve heard there are drugs around that can cause a cardiac arrest . . . You don’t think they’ve been bumped off, do you?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘Christ,’ he said again.

‘I need to know how those prison inmates died.’

‘They’re linked?’ He looked appalled.

‘They might be.’

He gave a groan. Closed his eyes briefly. ‘Don’t you think you should leave well alone?’

She nibbled the inside of her lip. She could no more let Blake rot in jail than she could take a chainsaw to her leg. ‘I can’t,’ she said.

‘Thought so.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll email you.’

‘Thanks.’ Normally she’d touch him, maybe squeeze his arm as a way of thanking him, but she refrained. She took a step back, made a vague gesture. ‘I’ve got to go.’

He gave a nod. No farewell hug, no kiss.

Jay walked to stand in front of Sofie. Looked into her eyes. ‘You are a truly brilliant, amazing, and wonderful person,’ she said. ‘I would never have unlocked that code without you.’

To her surprise, Sofie blushed. ‘I only got it because Mummy took me to the museum at Easter. I saw the white bear there. It was the bear that gave me the clue.’

‘Well, however you managed it, I will be forever grateful, OK?’

Sofie bit her lip. Her gaze was glued to the floor. ‘You’re not cross with me?’

‘If you hadn’t cracked the code –’ Jay was honest – ‘I would have been furious. But as it is . . . You have no idea how much time you’ve saved us. But please, Sofie. Promise you won’t look at my mobile again? It’s private.’

‘I swear I won’t, OK?’

The girl looked so anxious, so willing to please, that Jay held out her hand. ‘Truce?’

‘Truce.’ Sofie shook her hand firmly, expression intense.

Jay glanced at Tom before she continued, making sure he was listening. ‘Before I go, Sofie, will you promise me something?’

Sofie nodded furiously. ‘Anything.’

‘Don’t tell anyone what you’ve found. It’s very sensitive information, which could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands.’

‘Is it to do with that woman who came here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I promise.’ Sofie solemnly crossed her heart.

‘If you ever need a job with GCHQ, the centre where spooks do all their decoding and eavesdropping, I’ll write you a reference, no problem.’

‘You think I could be a spy?’ The girl’s face was alight.

‘You already are.’

Sofie beamed.

When Jay arrived home, she was too wired to sleep. Instead, she trawled the Internet for information on the eight dead people.

The Right Reverend James Draper, it transpired, had headed the Church of England Diocese of Bath and Wells, a vast area that stretched from Portishead in the east to Bath, and down to Yeovil and across Dorset to Exmouth. He entered the House of Lords in 2005. He’d had the ear of many Members of Parliament, and of the Prime Minister. He’d also had access to the Queen. A powerful figure, by all accounts.

As Jay dug deeper, she gradually uncovered Draper’s vision, his policy of purpose. He’d been a liberal Christian, apparently, who’d believed in integrating the Muslim faith into his Diocese. He’d firmly believed there was room for both faiths and that, one day, for every church there should also be a mosque.

Jay recalled what Ruth had said when she’d confronted Colonel Greene.

You’re saying Rick was never approached socially by his superior officer . . . and asked light-heartedly whether he’d join an organization that was dedicated to halting the flood of Muslims into the West?

Surely not, she thought. Disbelief had her shaking her head. Was the Garrison really going around assassinating people who didn’t hold their views? It didn’t seem possible. Still shaking her head, Jay researched the next name on her list. Colin Hutton had also been in the House of Lords. Like Draper, he’d been a liberal, and had been known for his fierce opposition to the UK having an army, navy, and air force. Instead, he’d espoused an integrated European police force, controlled by the EU. Not something many right-wing voters would agree with.

Leo Roberts was the next in line. A mature student and leader of a Students’ Union, Leo had been against the war in Afghanistan. He’d organized a variety of student protests and had appeared firmly pro-Muslim.

And so it went on. Each person on Sol’s phone appeared to have been either left wing or liberal, and in favour of an integrated society, welcoming Muslims into the West.

The only anomaly Jay could find was Emilie. They hadn’t attempted to assassinate Emilie for her liberal views. Blake had said she’d overheard something that panicked her. And what about Sol? Emilie’s coded name had been sent to him the week before his meeting with Blake. Sol had known Emilie had been stricken with a virulent virus . . .

Head overloaded with information, Jay yawned, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. She glanced at the kitchen clock to see it was past two in the morning. Closing down the computer, she stumbled to bed. She fell asleep as though felled.

Blake’s appearance was due to be held at three thirty in the afternoon at Westminster Magistrates Court, leaving Jay free to head for the office on Wednesday morning. She’d just come out of the deli when her phone vibrated, alerting her she had an email. She checked the sender to see it was from Tom. Subject: statistics.

Of the 230 who died in prison of natural causes, there are 80 that concern me: 52 died of heart attacks, 28 from an unknown virus. (The remaining 90 died of everything from pneumonia to liver failure and cancer. I’m not worried about these.) With roughly 80,000 people housed in 150 prisons, the unknown virus is concerning the authorities, but they haven’t hit the panic button yet. The toxicology guys are wondering if the high number of heart attacks is due to some new, undetectable drug being pedalled around – they’ve found degradation products that concern them. Interestingly, nearly all of the 80 people who died of heart attacks or the unknown virus were in jail for either killing or having harmed a child. Where are you going with this?

Heart thumping, she reread the text. Could it be true? Were the Garrison really killing these people?

She shot off a quick email, thanking Tom. Like herself, he must have been up half the night, digging through the prison stats. She’d ring him later, she decided, after she’d talked to Nick. She made two mugs of coffee and took them into Nick’s office, along with half a dozen sticky baklava she’d picked up at the deli around the corner. Both she and Nick were addicted to baklava, having been introduced to the syrupy pastries in the Middle East.

‘Hmmm,’ Nick said, swallowing his first finger-shaped pastry in two bites. ‘God, they’re good.’

‘Sofie cracked Sol’s code.’ She quickly explained how the code worked, listed the names, and told him that all eight people were dead of supposedly natural causes.

‘And?’

She showed him Tom’s email. He fell quiet, sipping his coffee. After a couple of minutes, he reached for his ancient Rolodex and flipped through the cards. ‘We need to speak to a friend of mine, Dr Cole. Used to work at Porton Down.’

Porton Down, Jay knew, was the UK government and military defence science and technology laboratory.

‘He now works in a research lab at Bart’s.’ Nick dialled, but Dr Cole was in a meeting.

While Nick played phone tag with the doctor, Jay caught up with paperwork. It wasn’t until after lunch that Nick called her into his office. He had Dr Cole on speakerphone. He introduced them.

‘Jay wants to hear what you’ve got to say about these statistics.’

‘I don’t like them,’ Dr Cole said. His voice was big and booming, making Jay picture a man the size of a tractor with a beard like a spade. ‘If it’s true, that they’ve been assassinated, then the toxicologists need to be looking in this direction. Do you remember the Bulgarian defector Georgi Markov? He was jabbed in the calf by a man holding an umbrella on Waterloo Bridge in 1978. He felt a stinging pain, which he took to be from the tip of the umbrella, and when he arrived in his office, he found a red pimple where the umbrella had jabbed him. He ended up in hospital with a high fever and died three days later. The autopsy showed a pellet the size of a pinhead embedded in his calf. Porton Down found it was sugar coated and designed to melt at body temperature. As it melted, ricin was absorbed into the bloodstream. The Russians were blamed.’

Jay fixed her eyes on the phone. Her flesh was crawling.

‘Any pellets in your victims?’ Dr Cole asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Nick said. ‘But from now on we’ll be looking.’

‘A heart attack can be brought on by a variety of drugs,’ Dr Cole continued. ‘It could be injected, or dropped into someone’s drink. The virus is a different matter. It has to be introduced via mucosal surfaces, like tissues, towels, and hands. That’s how flu and colds are transferred.’

‘One of the victims suffering from the virus is still alive,’ Jay said. ‘She’s in a coma, but she’s alive.’

‘Hmmm,’ Dr Cole mused. ‘Maybe the virus is aggressive to start with, culminating in a peak, which is when the victim dies. Should the virus stop replicating after this peak, and the victim has reached this stage alive, then their immune system can begin to fight it. Or maybe they’ve already got some form of immunity for this particular virus.’

He paused briefly to clear his throat. ‘You said there might be an antidote, but I’ve never heard of anything that works like that towards a virus. See if you can get your hands on samples of the virus. Bring them over to me, and I’ll have a look. Tell you what they’re about.’

After he’d ended the call, Nick sat rubbing his forehead. ‘Jesus,’ he said.

Jay remained quiet for a while, trying to take it in. Were people in the prison system really killing targeted inmates? It seemed wild, crazy, but having listened to Dr Cole, and the story about Georgi Markov, anything seemed possible.

‘Look,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve got a meeting I can’t miss on the other side of town. Text me Blake’s court result?’

‘Sure.’ Jay rose and fetched her handbag and, when the clock ticked to three o’clock, headed for the tube.

The courtroom wasn’t particularly large, and Jay was surprised at how busy it was; solicitors, legal assistants and media were all jostling for space. Murder suspects were obviously a crowd-puller. Jay took a seat in the third row at the end of the bench, in case she needed a quick getaway. Her skin tautened when she saw Jim Turner arrive. He crossed the room and squeezed himself on the bench behind her. He leaned forward. ‘How are you, Jay?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ She was brittle.

‘I gather Blake is still protesting his innocence.’

‘That’s because he is innocent.’

‘But I thought I asked you—’

She twisted in her seat to face him. ‘I know what you asked. You don’t have to repeat it.’ Her voice was low and angry.

‘Look, Jay.’ He massaged the space between his eyes. ‘I admit I made a mistake. I thought you’d back off after what I said in the car. I should have known better, given your file, but I thought it was worth a shot. Plenty of people have been intimidated by less.’

The muscles in Jay’s face felt stiff. Had he helped orchestrate all those people’s deaths? Including those of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and Madeleine Gal?

‘There’s more going on here than you can realize,’ he continued. ‘I wish I could show you the bigger picture so you could understand, but it’s impossible. It’s also very dangerous. If I tell you that I’m on your side, that I’m trying to protect both you and Blake . . .’

She gave a snort. ‘Does Blake know the bigger picture?’

‘Nobody does.’

‘Except you.’ Her voice was mocking.

‘Except me,’ he agreed.

Jay rose to allow a man to inch past her, heading for a space further along.

‘What can I say to convince you?’ Turner murmured.

‘You can’t,’ Jay said.

‘Blake is safe in jail,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want him there.’

‘Safe from whom?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘The Garrison.’ As she said the word, the pupils in his eyes became pin dots. Once again, she was reminded of a shark.

‘You really should be careful about using that word,’ he said.

At that moment, there was a commotion to one side, and Turner’s water-pale eyes moved to focus behind her. Jay turned to see Blake walking into the courtroom, flanked by two uniformed policemen. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and red tie. His bearing was tall, his gaze direct. He looked like a solicitor – which, she supposed, was his intention. She didn’t think he’d find her in the crowd, but as he turned to take his seat he looked straight at her and sent her a wink.

Jay rolled her eyes at his flippancy. He looked amused. He didn’t seem to notice Jim Turner, but Jay knew things with Blake were deceptive, and that he’d no doubt pegged everyone he needed to within seconds.

It didn’t take long for the prosecution and the defence to get into a wrangle over whether Blake should be granted bail or not. Once upon a time there was an automatic ban on murder suspects being given bail, but this had been ruled out by the government because it would, according to the European Convention, breach their human rights. Plus, there was the fact that if every murder suspect was sent to jail pending trial, the jails would be even more overcrowded.

The prosecution said that Blake was dangerous and could commit another murder if allowed to ‘roam the streets’. The defence said Blake was an upstanding citizen and faithful employee of the security services, who had never been arrested before and was no danger to anyone. There was no talk of bail surety; unlike in the US, there was no financial bond. If a murder suspect was given bail, no money changed hands.

The judge watched both men impassively before saying, ‘Max Blake will be held under house arrest until his trial. He will be electronically tagged. He steps outside his own four walls, he goes straight to jail. Clear?’

The prosecution ground their teeth, while the defence clapped Blake on the back and shook his hand, but Blake wasn’t looking at his solicitor. He was looking directly at Jay, expression intense. His eyes burned into hers.

He mouthed, ‘Tonight.’ It wasn’t a question.

Her stomach swooped. She hadn’t expected to fulfil her promise so soon. Her mind flipped from wondering how he was going to get home to whether her local beauty salon would be able to fit her in for a full-body makeover at two minutes’ notice.

‘Jay.’

She tried to drag herself back to reality. God, she was going to sleep with Blake tonight. Tonight! Her belly was doing flip-flops already. Heaven knew what state she’d be in later.

‘Are you all right?’ Turner was studying her.

‘Fine.’ She cleared her throat. ‘No problem.’

‘I want you to give Blake this.’ He passed her a small padded envelope. ‘I don’t trust the phone, or email.’

‘What is it?’

‘You’ll find out if he chooses to share it with you. Or if you open it yourself.’ He paused, watching her speculatively. ‘Be careful how you tread, Jay.’

She watched him walk away, and for the first time she noticed he had a slight roll in his gait, like a man used to being at sea.

Jay had just locked her car and was walking to the office when Tom rang. He said, ‘Got your number plate.’

She scrabbled in her handbag for a pen. ‘Tom, I can’t thank—’

‘It belongs to an Alan Churton.’ He was curt. ‘In Mitcham.’ He rattled off an address, along with a phone number, which she hastily scribbled down on the back of her hand.

‘You’re wonderful.’ She took a breath. Hearing his voice had sent her emotions all over the place. She wanted to talk about the prison deaths, about Dr Cole’s theories on the heart attacks and the unknown virus, but all sense had fled. ‘Look, I know you said you wanted a break, but can we talk about it? I know I don’t always act how you like—’

‘Sorry, Jay,’ he interrupted. ‘Not now.’

‘I just want to talk, that’s all. I need to explain why—’

‘There’s nothing to explain. I need time to think, OK? Bye.’

He hung up.

She stood briefly, wondering whether to text him or not, but then she remembered Blake, that she was supposed to be at his house that evening, and decided against it. God, life was complicated.

Sighing, Jay rang Nick. ‘Blake’s under house arrest,’ she told him.

‘Could be worse.’

‘And Tom’s found the Polo’s address.’

‘Where?’

Jay told him. ‘I thought I’d drive down there now,’ she said. ‘See if Churton’s home. Ask a few questions. See if he knew where his son parked the night I was kidnapped. I don’t want to do it by phone.’

‘Good idea. When you get the address of your kidnapper, ring me.’

Jay drove out to Mitcham. Later, she couldn’t remember much about the journey. Just the fact that every time she thought of Blake, and pictured the lean length of his spine, the scars wrapping his ribs, her grip on the steering wheel tightened until her knuckles gleamed white.

Mitcham was five miles from Fulham, but it could have been fifty the time it took to battle her way through Clapham and Streatham. Finally, she turned off the London Road and into Graham Road. Large terraced houses lined the street – most whitewashed, each with a paved front patio on which to park a couple of cars. In the old days, these paved spaces would have been gardens filled with shrubs and grass. No wonder sparrows were almost non-existent in London. They had nowhere to forage any more.

She was barely twenty yards down the street, head turning from side to side to read the house numbers, when, for no apparent reason, her nerves began to sing a warning. She slowed. Broadened her vision to look at each side of the street, to the end and back. She took in two women with a pram. A young guy on a bicycle. The distant sound of a drill. Nothing to be worried about, but something was wrong; her subconscious knew it, but her conscious mind couldn’t work it out.

She slowed further. Heart thumping, Jay inched down the street. Out of nowhere, all the hairs on her body stood bolt upright.

Just past a white transit van on the left hand side, stood the hulking shape of a motorbike shrouded beneath a silver canopy. Parked on the front patio of the house opposite, stood a VW Polo. Number plate YCO9 OPD.