The Angel
Authors: Mark Dawson
ALSO BY MARK DAWSON
I
N THE
S
OHO
N
OIR
S
ERIES
Gaslight
The Black Mile
The Imposter
I
N THE
J
OHN
M
ILTON
S
ERIES
One Thousand Yards
The Cleaner
Saint Death
The Driver
Ghosts
The Sword of God
Salvation Row
I
N THE
B
EATRIX
R
OSE
S
ERIES
In Cold Blood
Blood Moon Rising
Blood and Roses
H
ONG
K
ONG
S
TORIES
V
OL
. 1
White Devil
Nine Dragons
Dragon Head
S
TANDALONE
N
OVELS
The Art of Falling Apart
Subpoena Colada
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Mark Dawson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 978-1503947832
ISBN-10: 1503947831
Cover design by Lisa Horton
To Mrs D, FD, SD and JD
Contents
PART ONE
Chapter One
I
n the year before she died, Beatrix Rose taught her daughter many things. She taught her how to lie and how to tell when someone else was lying. The benefits of meditation and how it was a useful strategy for enduring long stretches of time without sleep or other comforts. How to detect when she was being followed and how to follow someone without being seen.
She taught her other things, too. For example, how important it was to always arrive first for a rendezvous. It was good manners, for one, but – and this was much more important – the person arriving first for an appointment could control how that appointment unfolded. She could choose the environment: a table where it would be difficult to be eavesdropped on, the seat offering the best view of the ways in and out. An agent did not want the seat that put her back to the door. She certainly did not want to be the person arriving last. It was rude, and most important, it decreased your chances of leaving.
Control had contacted her a week ago to propose that they meet. He had suggested that he come to Marrakech, but Isabella had declined. Far better for her to go to him.
She had arrived in London two days before the appointed time and had selected this location yesterday. She had scouted up and down the river until she found a spot she liked. She started at the huge wheel of the London Eye, continued past the twin pedestrian bridges that led across the water to Charing Cross
station
and headed north into the artistic quarter. There was the National
Festival
Hall, together with the chain restaurants that had been attracted to the area like parasites to a host. Farther along the promenade was the Queen Elizabeth Hall and the undercroft famed for the skaters and BMXers who gathered there, every spare square inch of wall covered in colourful graffiti. Isabella had walked on, past the painted mime who was entertaining a group of
schoolchildren
perched atop a box. She had eventually settled on the café that was connected to the National Film Theatre. It offered wide windows with good visibility up and down the river path. There was a double flight of stairs leading up to Waterloo Bridge at the side of the building. If she needed to get away quickly, that would be the route she would choose.
Isabella reached the coffee shop with thirty minutes to spare. It was quiet this morning, and she was able to take a seat at the back of the room. The only luggage that she had brought with her was the leather satchel that she had bought from a trader in the souk. He had looked at her with hungry eyes, no doubt seeing an easy sale at an inflated price. She had disabused him of that notion very quickly. In the end, they had agreed on a fair price. The bag was new, but she had deliberately scuffed it so that it looked older. She didn’t want anything at all to attract attention to her.
The doors were wide open, and sounds from the outside drifted in. The café was partially beneath the grey concrete vault of
the bridge
, and the second-hand booksellers who had
gathered
here for decades were loudly discussing last night’s football as they set up their tables. A busker dressed in a sequinned jacket was serenading the joggers and pedestrians who sauntered past.
It was just after eight-thirty when she saw Control. He stopped at the door, his eyes adjusting to the gloom after the brightness of the morning. He saw her, smiled and crossed the room.
‘Hello, Isabella.’
‘Captain Pope.’
‘It’s Michael,’ he said. ‘Please. No formalities. Would you like something to eat? Breakfast?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Coffee?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘I’m just going to get myself one. You sure?’
She said that she would have an orange juice. He nodded his satisfaction and went to the bar.
The sight of him brought back memories of the American
hospital
and the man who had ripped her family apart when she was just a little girl. She had killed him when her mother could not, and Pope had driven her away as the police swarmed into the area. He had promised to get her out of the country, and he had been true to his word. He had driven them west to Charlotte and Douglas International Airport. They had taken a domestic flight to Atlanta and then flown from there, direct, to Paris.
She remembered how Pope had been uncomfortable when she had thanked him for his help and made it obvious that she didn’t need any more from him. She could tell that he was reluctant to let her go, but there was little that he could do about it. She had an excellent fake passport, and she had the money to buy a Royal Air Maroc ticket to Marrakech. She knew, too, that he had no idea what he would have done with her if he took her back to London. He had very few options, and eventually, she had persuaded him that the best one was to leave her to get on with her life.
He had compromised, writing his telephone number on the back of a magazine and telling her that if she ever needed him, then all she had to do was call. She had torn the page out, folded it and slipped it into her pocket. She still had it in a drawer in the kitchen at home, but it had never even been unfolded.
And then an email had found its way to her Gmail account. She had no idea how he had found the address. Isabella had treated that as a salutary lesson. She had considered herself well hidden, and the fact that he had discovered her online had pulled her up short. She had determined that she would do better.
Pope returned with a cappuccino and a glass of freshly squeezed juice. He lowered himself into the spare chair and passed the glass across the table to her.
‘Thank you for coming.’
She nodded.
‘I would have been happy to have gone to you.’
‘No, that’s all right.’
‘Still being careful?’
She gave a little shrug.
‘Sitting with your back to the wall, too.’
‘I like looking out at the river.’
He smiled. ‘Your mother taught you well.’
The mention of her mother made Isabella tense. She still missed her. She missed her every day. She still had nightmares of watching the news bulletin with footage of the burning car, the remains of the bomb that had obliterated her.
Pope could see that she was pensive; he was trying to ease her into the conversation. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘What have you been doing?’
She shrugged. She could have told him about her course of self-improvement, about her fluency in Arabic and French. She could have told him about how she was so fit that she had finished the International de Marrakech 10k in forty minutes with another five minutes still in the tank. She could have told him about the weekly mixed martial arts lessons she took in a dojo on the edge of town. She didn’t, though. She just shrugged, said, ‘This and that,’ and then, when he paused, ‘How can I help you, Mr Pope?’
‘I’m not here because I need your help. I have something f
or y
ou.’
He reached into his pocket and took out a small envelope. It had been folded over on itself and sealed with a piece of tape. He slid it across the table and withdrew his hand.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s something from your mother.’
She felt a tremble of emotion, and her lip quivered a little before she mastered it. She reached down for the envelope, dabbing her fingertips against it, running her index finger along the edge to the sharp point. She peeled the tape back, unfolded the envelope and then tore it open at one end. She saw a glint of silver and knew, for certain, what it was.
She blinked away tears.
‘Isabella—’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, scowling the tears away.
She tipped the contents of the envelope onto the table. It was a sterling silver locket. The twenty-four-inch-long chain was comprised of alternating circular and rectangular silver links, and the locket itself was of an ornate design, shaped like a heart with a daisy design on the face. Her eyes were damp and her throat felt constricted as she reached down for it. She opened it. There was a picture of her as a baby. She was small and chubby, with ringlets of blonde hair.
She closed the locket and hid it in her fist.
‘The Americans found it,’ Pope explained. ‘Your mother was wearing it when . . . well, when it happened. It was dirty. I had it cleaned.’
‘They kept it all this time?’
‘It’s evidence, Isabella. The police know that others were involved in what happened. They’ve been trying to put together as much information as they can about your mother. Of course, they don’t know that it’s you in the locket, but if they did, they would be very interested in talking to you. And it’s not just them. There are other people in America who would really like to know who
you are.
The people your mother went after, for example.’
She collected the chain and dropped it into her fist with the locket.
‘I only recently found out that they had it. I have a contact in Washington who was able to get it for me. I thought you’d want to have it.’
She waited a moment until her throat felt less constricted. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I do.’
She stood.
Pope looked as if she had taken him by surprise. He stood, too.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Thank you for finding this for me. I’m very grateful.’
‘Are you staying in London for long?’
‘No.’
‘You’re still in Marrakech?’
‘That’s right.’
She suddenly realised that she had to leave. She barely managed to choke down a sob, and although she managed it, she knew that it was obvious that she was upset. She hated to show weakness. Her mother had drilled that into her, too. She was barely managing to maintain her composure, and she knew that she needed to get away from him and get outside.
He was standing in her way. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘Today.’
‘Would you like to have something to eat with me later?’
‘No,’ she said, adding a ‘thank you’ when she realised that she must have been coming across as a rude and ungrateful brat. ‘My flight’s already booked. I have to leave for the airport this morning or I’ll miss it. I’m sorry.’
He was still standing in her way. He put out a hand and she took it. His grip was firm and his palm was warm. She wondered, just for a moment, whether she could stay a little. There was no reason for her to rush; there was nothing waiting for her at home. And Pope had looked out for her. He had taken a huge risk to save her life in America, and now there was this . . . She wavered, just for a moment, until she remembered her mother’s stern words.
‘You don’t need anyone else. ‘The only person you can trust is
yourself
.’
Her resolution returned. She released his hand and waited for him to step aside.
‘It was good to see you, Isabella. Remember what I said before. If you ever need me, you know where I am.’
‘Thank you.’
She found a smile and managed to hold the tears back until she was out the door and into the brightness of the morning beyond. She could smell the musty pages of the second-hand books and the freshness of the wind as it whipped in from the water. Her eyes welled up, and then the tears overflowed and spilled
across he
r cheeks. She felt the locket inside her fist, the silver warmed by
her skin
. She sobbed aloud, turned to the left and then again to the left, and ran up the steps to the bridge above.
Isabella might have been older than she looked, but she was still just fifteen years old. And she wanted to get home.