TWENTY-FOUR

The what?’ Stewart tried to sound surprised, but the nervous click in his throat gave him away. ‘We’re thinking of joining,’ Nick said. ‘But first we need to know what we’re getting into.’

‘Oh. Well . . . er, we’re a type of club.’ Stewart cleared his throat. ‘Like-minded people coming together. Looking out for each other. You’re all ex-Services, right?’

‘Right,’ said Nick.

‘Well, we’re fed up with things, wouldn’t you agree? Not enough helicopters in Afghanistan, rotten kit, crap care for our boys when they return home . . . One bloke I know – he’d lost both legs to an IED – was put in a bed next to a Muslim, who fucking spat on him. What a fucking disgrace. We shouldn’t have our men sent to the fucking NHS. We should be in military hospitals, cared for by our own kind, not by a bunch of people who don’t fucking care.’

Stewart’s voice increased in strength as he spoke, becoming impassioned. ‘And what about our regiments? They’re all being amalgamated, taking away a soldier’s pride in their history, fucking destroying them. The Navy’s going tits up. The air force too. One day, this country will be fucking invaded, and we won’t have anyone to defend us. We’ll be a pushover for every fucking raghead in the fucking world.’

‘So you weren’t a fan of Colin Hutton, then,’ said Jay, referring to the man whose prime objective was to turn the UK’s armed services into a European defence force.

‘It’s people like fucking Hutton who are bringing this country to its knees.’

‘You know he died two months ago?’

‘And I didn’t shed a tear.’

She twisted to look into his face. ‘What about Madeleine Gal?’

‘You mean the woman who encouraged all those illegal immigrants to come to Britain?’

‘Did you know she died two weeks ago?’

‘No. But I’m not shedding any fucking tears over her, either. Why, are you?’ His tone turned sneering.

She said, ‘Stew. What do you know about prisons?’

‘The same as you, probably.’ He sounded wary. ‘That it’s a place to be avoided.’

‘What about eighty inmates last year meeting an untimely death?’

‘And if each of those inmates was a child molester or a child killer –’ Stewart suddenly leaned forward, his voice low and hard – ‘would you care if they fucking died?’

Before Jay could reply, Nick said, ‘No. I’d say good riddance.’

‘Good riddance,’ Stewart echoed, looking between Jay and Nick.

Nobody spoke as a mud-spattered Land Rover drove past, vanished into the distance.

‘How many are in the Garrison?’ asked Nick.

‘I can’t say.’ Stewart spread his hands. ‘But there are a few of us around the place. Mostly in the UK, but we’re spreading overseas, heading east, which is good news for us. Push the fucking Muslims back where they fucking belong.’

‘The DCRI,’ Jay said. ‘In Paris. They’re involved, aren’t they?’

‘Yeah.’ Stewart looked surprised. ‘I’d heard some of them had joined up. Who do you know?’

‘Marfat and Prideaux.’

‘Don’t recognize the names, sorry.’

‘How about Solomon Neill?’ Nick asked.

‘We all knew Sol. Top bloke. That bastard Blake for taking him out . . .’

‘Blake didn’t kill Sol,’ Jay said. ‘A female assassin did, called Nahid. Small, lithe, and blonde. Ring any bells?’

Stewart’s expression was baffled. ‘What?’

‘I witnessed Sol’s murder. Nahid rammed a stiletto into the base of his skull. Why was he killed?’

‘What comic books have you been reading?’

‘I watched him die.’

‘Max Blake killed Sol.’ Stewart was stubborn. ‘That’s why we went and grabbed him, to make sure he stands trial, and nothing you can say will alter that.’

Jay let it go.

‘Who runs the Garrison?’ asked Nick.

‘I don’t know.’ Stewart’s voice rang with sincerity.

‘So how does it work?’

‘We belong to chapters. There’s one in south London, for instance. We meet maybe three, four times a year for a piss-up.’

‘How many of you?’

‘Not many.’ Stewart looked uncomfortable.

‘How many, Stew?’ Nick insisted.

‘I’d like you to take me home now,’ Stewart said.

Nobody said anything for a long time.

‘Look, mate.’ This time it was Dave who spoke. His voice was deceptively soft. ‘Jay said she cut herself in your garage. There’s DNA evidence you kidnapped her right there, at your place. You really want us to set the cops on you? Kidnapping’s a serious crime, in case you didn’t already know it. So why don’t you tell us how many other like-minded people are in your chapter?’

Stewart’s throat made another nervous click. ‘Fifty or so. Not that we all meet every time. Usually it’s around fifteen, twenty of us.’

‘Are you all with the Services?’ Dave’s tone was like silk.

‘No. We’ve got members all over. In the police. Some are in Customs. Others are doctors, nurses, secretaries. There are a couple of judges. A solicitor or two.’

Tentacles winding through every walk of life, Jay thought.

‘How many chapters?’

With Dave asking questions, they gleaned that there were chapters in most of the major cities, some larger than others, and that they were self-contained and rarely communicated with one another. Each new member had to be proposed by two current members, and there was a probationary period of a year before they were promoted to full membership. Each chapter head collected the annual fee in the New Year and forwarded it to a post-office box in central London.

‘How much a year?’ asked Nick.

‘Eight hundred.’

‘Your chapter rakes in forty thousand pounds a year?’ Jay was astonished.

‘We have costs.’ His eyes darted around the van.

‘What sort of costs?’

‘Join up, and you’ll find out.’ Stewart was looking between them. Anxiety was etched on his face.

‘Not today,’ said Nick. ‘But thanks for the offer.’ He glanced at Jay. ‘Any more questions?’

‘Loads. Like, how long have you been a member, Stew?’

‘Look, I really don’t want to say any more.’

‘How long?’ asked Dave quietly.

Stewart fixed his gaze on the floor. ‘Six years.’

‘How did you know Sol?’ Jay asked.

‘He was the head of our chapter. A really good bloke, up for a laugh. Totally professional, though. He’s one of you guys.’ He looked at Dave and Rob, meaning the Special Air Service, the SAS. ‘You knew him?’

‘Not personally,’ said Rob. ‘But we’d heard the name. As you say, totally professional.’

Apparently, Sol used to live in Kensington, and he travelled to Paris regularly. It was Sol who had kept in touch with the upper echelons of the Garrison. Stewart and the others were the Garrison’s underlings, its foot soldiers.

Jay asked, ‘What are the names of the other two guys who kidnapped me?’

Long pause.

‘Stew?’ Dave prompted softly.

Stewart cringed. Closed his eyes briefly. ‘Jed Weale and Charlie Gabb.’

‘Addresses?’

‘Oh, Jesus.’

‘You know we’re going to get everything we need from you,’ Dave said. ‘One way or the other.’

Jay heard Stewart’s dry swallow.

‘Jed’s in Clapham. Charlie, Brixton.’ Stewart rattled off two addresses.

‘Who gave the orders to snatch Jay?’

‘My chapter head.’

‘Their name?’

‘Alison Drake.’ Stewart almost whispered her address, and, when they dropped him around the corner from his home an hour later, he stood on the pavement, shoulders slumped, watching them go.

Nick drove Jay to collect her car from where she’d left it in Streatham. She followed the white van back to Vauxhall, where they parked outside the office. Nick handed the van’s keys to Dave and Rob. ‘Thanks guys,’ he said.

‘Any time, boss.’

They left with a cheery wave.

Puzzled, Jay said, ‘What did they mean, boss? I thought you were a marine.’

‘It’s a loose term.’

‘You’re SAS?’

‘Ex,’ he said. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t publicize the fact.’

‘Cross my heart,’ she assured him.

‘We have to see Blake,’ Nick said. ‘My car or yours?’

‘Er . . .’ Jay wanted to ask if they could take both, but lost her nerve. She may have spent the night with Blake, but she didn’t want to assume she’d be spending another night there. ‘Yours,’ she said. As they headed for his car, she added, ‘Should we set the cops on Stewart?’

‘He’s probably already scrubbed the inside of his garage with bleach. Besides, I’d rather keep him on edge and on our side, so that if we need any more info, or need to send out some disinformation, we can use him.’ He beeped open his car. ‘Hop in.’

They mulled over the Garrison and its workings during the journey, trying to find a way through the mire to exonerate Blake, but no ideas sprang to mind.

When Blake opened his door, he scooped an arm around Jay’s waist and pulled her to his side. Pressed a kiss on her lips. With his arm still around her, he shook Nick’s hand. Nick’s eyebrows shot up, but to Jay’s relief he didn’t say a word.

‘I just got a call from the Hospital Saint-Pierre,’ said Blake. ‘Emilie opened her eyes this morning.’

Jay turned in his embrace. ‘Max, that’s fantastic!’

‘She looked straight at the nurse, apparently, but when the nurse tried to talk to her, she sank back into unconsciousness. She hasn’t moved since.’

‘But that’s a great sign, surely?’

‘That’s what I’m hoping.’ He threaded his fingers with Jay’s. ‘I was just making lunch. Join me.’

Nick and Jay sat on stools while Blake tossed an avocado salad and laid out prosciutto, mozzarella, tomatoes, and fresh basil on plates. Bread baked with sun-dried tomatoes accompanied a shallow bowl of Italian olive oil. They talked as they ate, but when they began to discuss Sol and his role in the Garrison, Blake fell quiet. Eventually, Nick said, ‘If Sol was head of a chapter, then he’d be giving orders. It could be that he received the codes and forwarded them to the appropriate person.’

‘An assassin,’ said Jay.

‘Yes,’ Blake agreed. He was looking thoughtful. ‘But I think it’s simpler than that. I think Sol was the assassin.’

Oh my God.

What felt like a rush of electricity flashed over her skin. She was picturing Sol at the Parisian café, remembering what he’d said.

I wanted to marry Emilie, but she fell in love with someone else . . . That’s why I’m here. For Emilie. And the others.

‘What is it?’ Nick demanded.

‘Max could be right,’ she said. She rose to her feet and began to pace. ‘Let’s say Sol was the assassin. And when Emilie became a threat to the Garrison, Sol was given the orders to kill her. The Garrison didn’t know that Sol knew Emilie . . . What if Sol had a crisis of conscience? What if he suddenly saw all the other victims in the same light as Emilie? He wanted to see Blake, why? To atone? To find the cure for Emilie? He gave me his SIM and memory cards. He gave us evidence of what had been going on . . .’

She turned to look at the two men. ‘Sol wanted us to know about the Garrison.’

Blake mopped some oil with his bread, popped it in his mouth. He was gazing through the window. He said, ‘Which is why he was killed.’

‘Makes sense,’ Nick said. ‘So, with what we know, how do we get the Garrison off Blake’s back? Stewart gave us the name of the head of his chapter, Alison Drake. We have the names and addresses of the guys who snatched Jay. Can we use them somehow?’

‘Not yet.’ Blake slid off his stool and walked across the kitchen. He returned with Jim Turner’s padded envelope, which he placed in front of Jay.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Have a look and see.’

Jay withdrew a single piece of A4 paper, folded into four. It was a printed page from a website advertising a Parisian pharmacy on the Rue Soufflot. The head pharmacist’s name, Stephanie Legrand, had been highlighted. The name ‘Mr Brown’ had been handwritten at the top, along with a ten digit number and a note: collect samples of both prescriptions.

‘Prescriptions?’ Jay asked.

‘How did those eight people on Sol’s phone die?’ Blake asked.

‘Heart attacks, and an unknown virus.’

‘Possibly brought on by administering a drug that causes them.’

Jay looked at the slick, professional-looking home page. ‘You think this is where the assassin gets the drugs?’

‘I don’t think Turner would be sending us on a wild-goose chase,’ Blake said. ‘I’d like you to go and meet Legrand. I’d send Nick, but he doesn’t speak French.’

Jay’s mistrust of Blake’s boss rose. ‘What if it’s a trap?’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘Because . . .’ She took a breath. ‘I don’t trust him. He wanted me to tell you to plead guilty to the charges against you. That if I fought the Garrison, he couldn’t guarantee my safety.’

‘True,’ Blake said. He didn’t seem to be at all bothered by his boss turning traitor.

‘He’s with the Garrison,’ Jay said. ‘I’m certain of it.’

‘You’re probably right.’ He moved back to his stool and spooned some more salad on his plate. ‘Anyone for any more?’

Jay pushed her plate away. Blake could be insufferable sometimes, like right now. He knew something she didn’t, but he wasn’t going to share it. Compared to Tom, who was always up front about what was going on, Blake was a proverbial clam. Her mind immediately leaped. She’d forgotten to ring Tom. Hastily, she showed Blake Tom’s email and ran him through the prison statistics. Then Nick told Blake what Dr Cole had said.

‘Cole doesn’t believe there’s such a thing as an antidote to the virus.’ Nick shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry.’

Blake looked past them, his cheek muscles taut. ‘Which means Sol’s talk of an antidote was to get my attention. Make sure I got to him quick smart.’

‘I’d better call him,’ Jay said. ‘I mean Tom.’

She wasn’t sure what she expected – maybe for Blake to frown a little, show some concern at her ringing her ex-fiancé – but his expression didn’t change. He said, ‘Don’t forget to tell him your anxiety about Turner. Or that you’re going to see Stephanie Legrand tomorrow.’

Jay walked into the sitting room to make the call. It rang twice before it was answered.

‘Hi, Jay!’ Sofie said brightly.

‘Hi there.’

‘How’s it going with the code? Did you know all those people are dead? I looked them up on the Net. Weird, huh?’

Why Jay had tried to shelter the girl earlier, she now couldn’t think. ‘Yup. Weird.’

‘Can I do anything else to help?’ Sofie sounded keen.

‘Not right now,’ Jay said. ‘But can I keep you on standby? As my special undercover spook?’

‘Great!’ Sofie’s tone dropped to a whisper. ‘I won’t tell Mum, OK? It will be our secret.’

Unsure whether this was a good idea or not, Jay’s tone was hesitant, but the girl didn’t seem to notice. ‘OK.’

‘Brilliant! Do you want to speak to Daddy?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Hang on a mo’.’

Barely ten seconds passed.

‘Jay,’ said Tom.

‘Hi.’

Tom said, ‘What are you going to do with the prison statistics?’

No ‘hello, thanks for ringing’. Just straight to the question, using his cop voice.

‘Nothing, as yet. They’re sitting in the pot of stew called the Garrison.’

‘The pot of stew including Blake.’

Oh, God. She never had got around to telling Tom that Blake was alive. Things had been moving so fast. She wondered how Tom had found out and knew it wouldn’t have been difficult. All he had to do was read his newspaper, or check the news on the Web.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s under house arrest.’

‘And you’re with him.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’

This time, she couldn’t jump in saying there was nothing going on between her and Blake.

‘I see. Goodbye, Jay.’

He hung up.

Her heart hollowed at the finality in his tone. Tears began to rise, and she forced them down. She swallowed. Opened her eyes. Blake was standing in front of her. He took her phone and put it to one side, then wrapped her in his arms. He didn’t say a word. Just held her.

When she felt stronger, she pulled out of his embrace. ‘I couldn’t tell him anything. He didn’t want to talk.’

‘Come.’ He took her hand and walked her back into the kitchen, where Nick was sipping coffee. ‘Nick and I have made a plan for tomorrow. We want to know what you think.’