Maybe she should take the tape to the press. Make it all public. But did she trust them? And would they believe her anyway, even with the evidence?
Suze shook her head. The truth was, she didn’t trust anybody. She had gone to such lengths to acquire the contents of that tape on the table – it made her feel sick, the memory of the danger in which she’d put herself – and now she wasn’t only afraid of its contents, she was afraid to do anything with it!
You’re fucking crazy.
The words of the man with the limp who had caught her on the rooftop earlier that day rang in her head. She winced as she thought of the things she’d threatened him with. Shameful things.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe she
was
crazy.
Maybe these bastards had dragged her down with them.
Perhaps she should throw the tape away? Burn it. Forget she’d ever heard its contents and just get on with her life. Get herself a husband and some kids, like all her friends had. Like her mum had tried to persuade her to do for so many years, until her mind had started to wander.
But she knew she wasn’t going to do that. She knew what she’d heard. And even if she didn’t yet know the full story, she knew she had to do something to stop it.
Suze put the Dictaphone on the bookshelf alongside her research files, then found herself a blanket and snuggled up on the sofa again. She needed a clear head, and for a clear head she needed sleep.
Whether sleep would come, with all these thoughts spinning around in her mind, was a different matter entirely.
Chet drove.
His mind was racing. What the
fuck
had happened? Who was the intruder? Who had tried to kill him?
You’re going to tell me the name of the woman you spoke to outside the meeting room today. If you do that, you might live to see morning.
Suze McArthur. That pale-faced redhead with a stud in her nose and the smell of incense in her clothes had someone running scared. But who? And why?
He remembered what he’d overheard on the rooftop.
Trust me, Prime Minister Stratton. This war is good to go . . . the Americans are all on board. The question is, how are
you
going to get it through . . . ?
Was that enough to persuade someone to make an attempt on his life? No way. Chet knew the decision to take out an individual like that was never made lightly – especially if the hit had to be carried out on home turf. Too many things could go wrong. Killing someone was easy; covering it up was more difficult. The conspiracy theorists loved the idea that the intelligence agencies would think nothing of assassinating suspected terrorists or troublesome members of the royal family, but that was bullshit.
And in any case, the woman in his flat had
not
been British. As he drove, Chet desperately tried to place her accent. ‘
Harah!
’ she had said. Chet was a first-class Regiment linguist, and he thought the word seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
It was just past midnight when he turned off Euston Road to drive down Gower Street and into the West End. He parked his car in the NCP on Wardour Street, hid his rucksack underneath the passenger seat and limped through the maze of red neon, pubs and sex shops. A woman, comfortably in her forties and with too much make-up on, called to him from a doorway. ‘Looking for a bit of business, love?’
He put his head down.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, darling!’ The woman’s voice had turned angry when she realised she was being ignored.
Chet carried on towards Trafalgar Square, and from there to Whitehall. He walked down the opposite side to number 132 and stood for a moment observing the entrance. He didn’t really know what he was looking for – maybe an unmarked van parked suspiciously nearby; individuals carrying out surveillance in the street. He knew the signs to look for and right now he saw none of them, so he crossed the road and made his way into the building.
The big, marble-floored atrium was entirely empty, with the exception of a solitary security guard on reception – different to the guy Chet had spoken to that morning. He had black skin and dreadlocks and was reading a copy of the
Sun
. He glanced up when Chet was a couple of metres from the reception.
Chet smiled at him. ‘Graveyard shift, mate?’
The guard put down his newspaper and Chet noticed that he’d been examining page 3. ‘You said it, brother,’ he sighed.
Chet looked around, then leaned in a bit closer. ‘I wondered if you could help me out with something.’
‘Ain’t no one here this time of night,’ the guard replied. ‘Except me, of course.’ He prodded the newspaper. ‘And Delightful Debs from Dagenham.’ He laughed, and Chet joined in.
‘Not looking for someone here. I’m looking for someone who
was
here,’ said Chet. ‘A chick.’
A broad grin crossed the guard’s face.
‘I did a little security job here this morning. The name’s Chet Freeman. Check your computer if you like.’
The guard shrugged and tapped at the keyboard of his terminal. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a moment. ‘I got you.’
‘So I got talking to this girl. Said her name was Suze. Cleaning lady. Redhead. Kind of . . .’ Chet made a gesture with his hands to indicate a shapely figure. ‘Should have got her number there and then, I guess . . .’
A troubled look came on to the guard’s face. ‘Ah, I don’t know, man. I’m not supposed to give that kind of information out. You know, home addresses and shit.’
‘Hey, course not. I understand. I was just thinking, you know, maybe a phone number . . . if you had it . . .’
He winked at the guard, who gave an amused shake of the head and replied, ‘I don’t know, brother. She must have been pretty cute for you to come chasing after her at this time of night.’
‘Yeah. Or maybe I’m just desperate.’
The guard laughed, then once more tapped on his keyboard. ‘Suze McArthur?’ he asked.
‘That’s my girl.’
‘She’s a temp. Only worked here yesterday.’ The guard scrawled a number on a yellow Post-It note and handed it to Chet. ‘Hope you get yourself some pussy, brother.’
Chet grinned. ‘You and me both, my friend.’
He turned and walked out of the building, the square of paper clasped firmly in his right hand.
It took him half an hour to get back to his car. It would have taken him less, but he went a roundabout way, down quiet side streets where he could look back and check he wasn’t being followed. By the time he’d got back to his vehicle, his leg was killing him – sharp, stabbing pains shooting from the stump up into the thigh, and a nagging soreness where flesh met prosthesis. It was a relief to sit behind the wheel. He drove out of the West End, pulling over on Tottenham Court Road to check he wasn’t being trailed, before heading to Aldenham Street in the maze between Camden and Euston Station. There were modern housing blocks on either side, but the street was deserted at this time of night and he parked in the gloom below a broken street lamp. He recovered his rucksack and removed one of the bulky mobile phones that he’d used to debug the offices earlier.
Seconds later he was dialling Suze’s number.
It rang six times.
Seven.
He was about to hang up when a voice came on the line. It was sleepy.
‘Hello?’
‘Suze McArthur?’
‘What . . . who is this?’ The girl sounded suspicious. Frightened.
‘Your friend from the roof.’
A pause.
‘How did you get my number?’ Her voice cracked slightly.
‘How did
you
get your hands on a laser listening device?’
Silence.
‘I let you escape today,’ he said finally. ‘You owe me. I want to know what you thought you were listening . . .’
‘I’m hanging up.’ Suze’s voice was wavering as she interrupted him.
‘Don’t you fucking dare.’
‘I’m hanging up . . .’ She sounded like a scared kid standing up to a bully. ‘I’m hanging up
now
.’
A click on the line, then silence.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Chet muttered. He dialled the number again, but this time it rang out.
He chucked the phone on to the passenger seat, leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He was dead beat. The beer, the scuffle at the flat, walking too far with his bad leg – it was all taking its toll. He ought to rest, but rest wasn’t on the menu. He’d be insane to go back home, but he needed somewhere to lie low. Where he couldn’t be found. Somewhere to get his head in order. With someone he could trust.
But as far as Chet was concerned, trustworthy people were as rare as a nun in a bikini. If Luke Mercer was in the country, Chet would already be on the way to Hereford. But he wasn’t, and in the absence of his old SAS mucker, there was only one other person he would even think of approaching. He picked up his phone and called a number that he knew by heart.
It rang for several seconds before a voice answered. ‘Who the hell . . . ?’
‘Doug, it’s me. Chet.’
A heavy sigh. ‘Jesus, Chet. What time is it?’
‘I don’t know – about 01.00? Listen, mate, I need a favour.’
‘Chet, this a wind-up? You been on the beers?’
‘No. Yes, but . . . look, can you meet me?’
A pause.
‘Now?’
‘Now. It’s important.’
‘Mate, I can’t. I’m out of town. Trains are done for the day. You never called – I went to the girlfriend’s place.’
Chet vaguely remembered Doug saying that his latest squeeze lived somewhere south of town. Mitcham Junction, was it?
‘Plus,’ Doug continued, ‘it’s one o’clock in the fucking morning.’
Chet cursed silently, his brain still racing.
‘Can you RV first thing?’
‘I guess . . .’
‘Clapham Junction. Platform 15 – one five – 06.30.’
‘Fine. Look, Chet, what the hell’s this all about?’
I wish I knew, Chet thought to himself.
‘06.30,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t be late.’
He hung up before Doug could reply.
Chet threw the phone down again and caught himself checking the rear-view mirror. Checking for what? He didn’t know, but he knew his heart was racing and his mouth was dry.
Fear? Damn right. But that didn’t mean he was going to succumb to it. He kept his gaze on the mirror, and prepared to sit it out till morning.
Suze McArthur stared at her phone like it was a snake. She was shaking. How had that guy tracked her down? Who was he working for?
A chill sickness welled up in her stomach. She found herself shivering, and felt as though all the strength had left her limbs. She pulled her blanket more tightly around her, but that did no good.
A noise in the corridor outside.
Suze heard herself gasp.
It was nothing, she told herself. She remembered being a child, terrified by strange sounds after her lights had been turned out. Her doctor father, when he was not away, would come in and smooth down her hair. ‘There’s no one here, princess,’ he’d whisper. ‘Just Mummy and Daddy, and we won’t let anything scare you. All you can hear is our old house creaking. That’s what happens at night.’
But there was nobody here to smooth her hair down now. Her father was dead, killed by a landmine in Angola when he was out there tending to sick children. Her mother couldn’t look after herself, let alone Suze.
Another noise. ‘It’s just the old house creaking,’ she whispered to herself.
The front door was locked. The windows too.
So why didn’t she feel safe?
It crossed her mind that she could go downstairs. Sometimes she picked up groceries for Vern and Dorothy, the sweet old couple who lived underneath her. She’d become friends with them. They were always on her case, telling her she should be settling down with a nice young man. A week ago they’d gone off on a cruise of the Norwegian fjords, and had left their key with Suze, just in case. But something prevented her even from moving, let alone venturing down the staircase in the middle of the night.
I should get out of here, she thought. Go somewhere else for a few days. Get my head straight.
That’s what she’d do. First thing in the morning. Pack a bag. Get out of London.
But morning seemed a long way off. She glanced over her shoulder at the front door. She
had
locked it, hadn’t she?
Another chill ran through her. She felt too scared to get up and check.
03.26 hrs.
Chet awoke suddenly.
It took him a few seconds to remember why he was sitting behind the wheel of his car in this dark side street, and he cursed himself for having dropped off. He was frozen. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a police siren. But this street was quiet.