Each Day I Wake: A gripping psychological thriller: US Edition (10 page)

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. This was something that Ty Montague had learned early in his career.

Was it right to be concerned about Brogan?

Nothing had come of the enquiries Mike Quinn had carried out to find who had been in Montague’s office that night. Brogan’s list of those remaining in the building was of little use, according to Quinn, not that this type of investigation was high on the hard man’s list of attributes. He was good at beating the truth out of a known target but subtle enquiry was in all probability beyond him. Yet, Montague was in no position to take this matter to Wheatley, Head of Security at Canada One.

So, the problem remained. Montague still had no knowledge of what, if anything, had taken place in his office that night. Or whether the whole incident had been fabricated by Brogan so he could use the situation to gain access to his sister. When the computer was checked, nothing untoward was found. It was possible that whoever had done this had returned and removed whatever they’d planted, if they’d planted anything at all. But, hey, wasn’t this starting to sound more than a little paranoid?

Which raised the issue of what was troubling Albert Emery. Someone was responsible for a serious breach of information on the workings of OAM. Once Quinn had shown him the photograph of the man, it hadn’t taken Montague long to discover that Geoff Tunny was working for
The Herald
as an undercover investigator, an unofficial member the Hamilton team that was trying to expose OAM. So, where was Tunny getting his information?

Montague had tried but failed to hide his growing suspicion of Stella DaSilva. The situation they found themselves in could be all explained if she was passing information about OAM to her brother, now that he’d found her and they were meeting. There was no reason to suppose she’d remained her usual discreet self, not when she’d made those threats in their acrimonious split. So, there was no way of being sure what Brogan now knew. Was he the one feeding Tunny?

Montague made a call from his private phone.

Mike Quinn picked up. “How can I help, Ty?”

“Brogan. Marshall Brogan”

“Tell me what you want, Ty.”

“I think he may be the link in the leak of information to Tunny. So, I need the whole piece, until further notice. A check on Brogan’s movements, who he’s talking with, phone calls he’s making, anything or anyone different coming into his life.”

“That’s done. Anything else?”

“And do something about Stella DaSilva at the same time.”

“OK. But what about Tunny? Like I’ve always said, Ty. Stay safe. Take no risks. There’s one way to stay safe and that’s to stay ahead of the game and that means taking care of problems before they happen.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“Time to come to a final decision about what needs to be done. Tunny already knows too much about us. Put that together with what Brogan might know and we say goodbye to all this, everything we’ve worked for.”

“I don’t like it, Mike.”

“You never do, Ty. But that’s the reality of the world out here, outside of Canary Wharf. You don’t need to know.”

“I never want to know.”

“Just say
yes
, that’s all it takes, and this problem can be made to go away.”

Montague’s mouth was so dry he was finding it difficult to speak.

“Just say it, Ty.”

“OK, Mike.
Yes
.”

When Marshall Brogan heard of Della’s death it didn’t register.

He knew, no matter how many times he was told the facts, he would never accept it.

They said she was a heroin addict. They said the way she had died was not uncommon. The heroin she used each day would be cut and cut again as it passed from supplier to dealer to dealer until its strength was reduced to the expected level. Once in awhile, something went wrong in the haphazard and illegal trade – pure heroin hit the street. Users prepared their shot as they always did and died. This is what had happened to Della, they’d told him. Before they could get her to hospital and pump the stuff out of her, she was dead.

It didn’t help Marshall to know this.

The light that had entered his life was gone.

She’d been back in his life for just a few short weeks.

The anger he’d felt through so much of his life had never brought him to drink. He’d seen what alcohol had done to their mother. But now as he sat on the high stool at the bar in the Richards Hotel, he asked for another double.

As he drank more, the seats near him emptied. He looked like a man drinking his way through a problem. Which is just what he was doing. Knowing what he was doing, he wouldn’t have wanted to be sitting anywhere near himself. Something was needed to control the rising tide that was compelling him to reach out and destroy something, anything that would take away the pain of his loss.

He did not want to accept that it was an overdose.

And the more he drank, the more the view formed in his mind that the story of Della’s death, as presented, was too pat, too convenient for too many.

But, he knew he had somehow to face it. He was never going to see her again.

It wouldn’t have taken much to arrange for Della to receive an overdose.

The police had not yet carried out the post mortem. The syringe found at Della’s side carried heroin. That, and the position of her body, was proof enough.

But he cursed himself for not knowing where to start and, if his sister had been killed, where to begin to find her killer.

The only thing he knew for sure was that Della had kept the diary. She’d told him that if she ever got into trouble that was too much to manage, the diary was her way out. And that was the reason he shouldn’t worry. When he’d asked more about it, about where she kept it, she would say no more than it was in a safe place.

He wished he’d done more to persuade her to confide in him but it was now too late. She was gone. That was the simple, terrible truth.

He needed to speak with Montague. Montague or one of the man’s friends.

Before his shift started at Canada One, Brogan made straight for OAM Securities.

When the administrators in the CEO outer office tried to stop him, Brogan pushed them aside and made his way into Ty Montague’s office.

It was a mistake.

Standing beside Montague were four Security staff. One was Head of Security, Robert Wheatley, Brogan’s boss.

“You have no business being here, Brogan. You’re in breach of company policy.”

Brogan looked over at Montague who sat looking unconcerned. “I just need a few minutes with Mr. Montague.”

Wheatley motioned for the two security guards beside him to restrain Brogan. “Now, that’s just what you’re not going to do.”

The guards held Brogan while Wheatley came up close and smelt Brogan’s breath. “And if I’m not mistaken you’re drunk on duty. I have to tell you that you’re suspended until further notice. And that you’re lucky we’re not going to hand you over to the police.”

As Brogan was manhandled away, he looked back at Montague. Yes, it was a smile of satisfaction on the man’s face.

How could he be so unaffected by Della’s death?

That alone was enough to convince Brogan that he had not been wrong in believing that her death was something more than an accident.

Tyrone Montague raised his glass. “I give you a toast to our continuing success.”

The banqueting suite was filled with one hundred of his most trusting investors and they were quick to echo the sentiment. “To our continuing success.” Each one had made a killing on what they’d put into OAM. None had any good reason not to join in the celebration and thank their chosen god that Tyrone Montague had agreed to take their money.

Let the champagne flow, thought Montague. Let them feast on the best food money can buy. After all, it was
their
money. Caviar d’Aquitaine blini. French truffles. Lobster Thermidor. All on OAM. All to say
thank you
to those who meant so much to the company.

Let the elite, assembled here on the upper floors of the Shard, the tallest building in London, revel in the knowledge that they were fortunate indeed to be here, looking out over the finest views the city had to offer and to understand, not just in the figurative sense, that they are on top of the world.

Image was everything.

Confidence was everything.

Montague had always known this yet he still had to pinch himself as a reminder of what success that mantra had delivered. He looked out at the gathered throng. They were like kids at a fifth birthday party. Strange to think that there were another hundred more he’d had to refuse to take money from. There was no limit to the money out there looking for a home. The government printed it and it had to find a place to go. You can only spend so much on Lamborghinis, Pollocks and Emins. The rest might as well come to people like him. And as long as the new money kept coming in, everyone was happy.

Yet there was something on his mind that threatened to dampen these thoughts of unbridled success. He pulled out his phone and speed dialed Mike Quinn. “Mike. Where do we stand on Geoff Tunny?”

Quinn sounded as if he was expecting the call. “He did a good job of disappearing, Ty. Even tried to make it look as though he’d left the country. But I have news. Word is he’s been seen in Chigwell. I have a dozen men out there looking for him. It won’t be long before we find him.”

Montague’s new squeeze, Patsy McNair, came up and tilted her champagne glass in his direction. “You’re not talking shop are you, Ty? And neglecting me?”

Montague took her by the arm and walked her over to the buffet table where a uniformed waiter refilled their glasses. “Now how could I ever think of neglecting you, Patsy. You know, after the company, you’re the most important thing in my life.”

Quinn was still on the line. “Anything else, Ty?”

“Just make sure you get to Tunny.”

Evan Hamilton bit deep into the heel of his hand and drew blood.

It was something he’d been doing since childhood. When things became bad.

And, he knew, it couldn’t get much worse than this.

Geoff Tunny killed. Hit by a white van as he tried to cross The Strand on foot. More than a suggestion that he was being chased. A warning. A note delivered by courier to Hamilton’s home address. A warning that he would be next. And that they knew where he lived.

How close had Tunny gone in trapping Montague? What had he learned from the bug on the computer?

Hamilton found himself wishing that the PI had found nothing of value. That would lessen the dilemma that troubled him now.

For Hamilton knew he would not be able to reveal anything that had been found. Not now Tunny was dead. To do that would be to admit to being an accomplice in the illegal surveillance that Tunny was carrying out. Worse, to admit that he’d commissioned the man to bug a City investment company. It would be the end of a long and, he liked to think, worthwhile career in journalism. Worse again, he might end his days in prison.

Yet, if he knew Tunny as well as he supposed, the man would have found a way of archiving what he’d found. That was his
modus operandi
, the stuff that had made his shady career a success in its own terms. The harvesting of scraps of information, dirt on politicians, business people and celebrities, and readying it for future use when the situation arose and when it would be useful; that was his way. Yes, whatever Tunny had found would be out there, somewhere.

Hamilton knew he had to find it. It was sure to contain damaging details about Hamilton himself. The problem was that Tunny had been secretive to the end, revealing as little as possible of the results of that
modus operandi
, preferring instead to release what he had only when it suited him. It would be difficult to penetrate the layers of protection that Tunny had built around the information he possessed. And dangerous after what had now taken place.

No, the way ahead was to keep it simple. Admit nothing about the undercover plans that Hamilton had consented to with Tunny when the inevitable police questions came. Give no indication to his colleagues that anything of the kind had taken place. And hope in the meantime to cut off any information flow from records that Tunny had kept.

He opened the door to the meeting room to find the team waiting. How uncharacteristic that they’d all arrived early for the day’s morning briefing.

He looked around the room. It was clear that, to a man, they all understood the seriousness of the situation.

“You’ve all heard what happened to Geoff?”

They nodded.

“Then, let’s get this clear. No matter what you might hear, our position is that Geoff Tunny was a respected colleague doing an essential job in helping us investigate wrongdoing. His work as a story consultant was invaluable in allowing this newspaper to make the progress it has in exposing those who break the law and defraud others of their hard earned savings. We’re going to miss him. Anyone who says otherwise won’t have a desk or a job to go back to.”

The room fell silent.

The meeting was predictable. They had made no real progress in cracking OAM, though each in turn made a fist of showing that they had.