Deep Shelter (29 page)

“Well, the last transaction was certainly big.”

“What was the last transaction?”

“Payment to a company called Falcrow. They received a card payment for £1886. That exceeds the overdraft limit on this account.”

“Any suggestion of what kind of company that is?”

“No. They’re based in London. That’s all I can see.”

“Any addresses for this customer on the system, other than the Beaux Arts Building?”

“No. The account was only set up a year ago.”

“Can I get a date of birth?”

“Sixth of July, 1975.”

“That’s Michael Easton.”

“Yes.”

Belsey wrote down the date.

“Did Mr. Easton make any trips abroad in March?” the woman asked.

“I don’t know. Are there foreign transactions?”

“Yes. Russia, Germany, Czech Republic and Hungary.”

“When?”

“Between the fourth of March and the twelfth of April.”

“Could you email that through?”

“Of course.”

Belsey gave his personal email address. He headed out of the pub, towards the Seven Sisters Road, looking for somewhere with a printer he could use. Next to the Agora Amusement arcade was a convenience store with what it described as an e-cafe at the back. The place was fluorescent and bare, two men sitting on the floor chewing khat, nothing on the shelves apart from packet noodles. The e-cafe was three monitors, a young boy playing online poker and a woman crying into Skype. Belsey paid for half an hour and sat between them.

The bank had been prompt—there were Easton’s statements, March to May 2013. Belsey opened them up and looked through. A few days into March, Ryman, NatWest and London Underground became Promsvyazbank, Smeˇnárna Praha and Hotel Mokhovaya.

£792 to Hotel Mokhovaya in Moscow on 25 March. It looked like he was there for five days. There were also stays in the two weeks before his Moscow jaunt at Danubius Hotel Budapest, and Eurostars Hotel, Berlin. Quite a traveller. Quite a spring tour.

But the longest sojourn was Penzion Speller in Prague: £1125.68 paid on April 12. Belsey searched Penzion Speller. From its website it looked small, family run. They’d remember a man travelling on his own.

Belsey slid his chair away from his fellow customers and called. The hotel answered quickly.

“Dobrý den.”

“Do you speak English?”

“Of course,” a man said. He sounded good humoured.

“I need to know about Michael Easton. An English man. He stayed with you in March.”

“Who is this?”

“Police,” Belsey said. “London police. Do you remember that guest?”

“Michael? Yes. The student.”

“What was he studying?”

“I don’t know. He was studying. Researching.”

“The cold war?”

“I don’t know. You are police? What has happened?”

“Quite a lot. What was he researching?”

“Archives,” the man said. “Libraries. That is all I know.”

“Which archives?”

Either the line cut or the man rung off. Belsey looked at the statement again. He wondered if Easton was in Moscow, Budapest and Berlin for the same reason. Researching. He pictured Easton sifting through the scraps of Soviet intelligence that were making their way into the public domain. Trying to find out why he died in November 1983.

Belsey looked through the rest of the email. They’d helpfully sent the last twenty-four hours’ transactions. Last payment was Falcrow, as they’d said. Belsey searched the company online. It was a building supplies depot in South London. Belsey’s first thought was: cement, bricks, digging tools; the disposal of bodies. Then he checked when Easton had been there. It was forty-five minutes ago.

HE DROVE OVER FAST.
Falcrow Building Supplies was based in a long warehouse that backed onto the railway line south of London Bridge. It also had a yard with towering stacks of bricks and timber. Cigarette smoke hung in the air between them.

“Hello,” Belsey called. A grey-haired man appeared from among the stacks, carrying his cigarette and a polystyrene cup. “Are you the manager?”

“Who wants to know?”

His face was lined, jaw dusted with white stubble. Belsey showed his badge. He told him about the £1886 transaction.

“Yes, he was just in. Hour ago. Been a few times.”

“Was he on his own?”

“Always.”

“What did he buy?”

“It was a plasma cutter today.”

“What about other times?”

“A propane torch, goggles, gloves, angle grinder. Drill, too, I think. Top of the range stuff. Big spender.”

“Did he say why he wanted them?”

“Converting an old building. Is he dodgy?”

“Did he seem dodgy?”

“No.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine.” The man flicked his cigarette away and took the lid off his cup.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“Was he anxious? In a hurry?”

“No.”

The man sipped and grimaced.

“How did he transport the equipment?”

“He had a van.”

“A Vauxhall.”

“That’s right. What’s he done?”

“See inside the van?”

“Briefly. Helped him load up.”

“No one in the back of the van?”

“No. No one with him at all.”

A lorry honked its horn. Belsey followed the manager as he unbolted the other half of the gates to let it in.

“Besides the orders, did he say anything else?”

“He asked about getting spare blasting caps. For PE4. You know what that is?”

“Plastic Explosives.”

“Well done.”

Belsey felt the edges sharpen once again. He knew PE4 from the jihad-infused days of late 2005, when he found his skills briefly employed in the service of Counter Terrorism. Composition 4–style explosive, cyclonite and plastic binding.

“How many caps?” Belsey asked.

“Seven, with electric detonators. Short delay.”

“Do you sell them?”

“No.” The lorry passed. The man straightened and faced Belsey again. “So he said he’d have to get some ammonium nitrate.” He grinned.

“Fertiliser.”

“It was a joke. I told him we’d need to inform the authorities. And he had det cord in the van.”

“You saw detonating cord in the van?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Two reels.”

Belsey thanked him and returned to the Skoda. He sensed a cold, methodical kind of preparation. And a clock ticking. Tooled up like that you’re not going to sit on it. The statements with their diminishing balance and swelling armoury said endgame loud and clear.

He called Hotel President. Martyna answered and her voice sounded sweet as any voice from a home you weren’t going to get back to.

“Martyna, it’s Nick”

“Nick? There are police here. They want you.”

“I know. Make sure they don’t give you any trouble. Can they hear you now?”

“No. Have you done something bad?”

“Not as bad as they think. Do you know if anyone’s tried to contact me at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“She. It was a woman.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was this?”

“An hour ago. She was a colleague, I think. Asking if you were here. She sounded . . . I don’t know. It was quick.”

“What else did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“She sounded scared?”

“I’m not sure. She was speaking quickly, quietly.”

Of the two women currently on his mind, that sounded distinctly like Kirsty Craik.

“Did she leave details?”

“No.”

“But you can see the number calling you. On your phone.”

“Yes, I have it here. A mobile number.”

She read it out. He wrote it down.

“What should I tell the police, Nick?”

“Tell them I’ll be back in five.”

He tried calling the number. A woman answered abruptly.

“Yes?”

“Who is this?” he said.

“Who is
this
? Why are you calling this number?” She sounded Filipino and up for a fight.

“I received a call from this phone. Is a Kirsty Craik there?”

“No.”

Belsey was wondering if he or Martyna had got it wrong. He heard a trolley rattle in the background. Linoleum squeak. Doors swinging.

“Where are you? Is that a hospital?” he said.

“What do you want?”

“Is there a police officer at the hospital? She was in a road accident. I think she may have used your phone, maybe without you being aware.”

“This is a joke? Waste my time?”

“Which hospital do you work at? Please tell me.”

“Cromwell.”

“The Cromwell Hospital in west London?”

“I did not call you. Please do not call this phone.”

She cut the line.

THE CROMWELL WAS A
private hospital in one of the more dishevelled enclaves of west London—which didn’t make it any cheaper and wasn’t going to make it any easier to get into. Belsey drove past peeling hotels and bureaux de change, souvenir shops, discreet brothels, squatted townhouses. He parked on Cromwell Road, bought overpriced flowers from a store specialising in Iranian food and approached the hospital as casually as he could manage. They had security right at the front: a roulette wheel of revolving doors with visible guards.

Belsey cut to the side of the building and watched an ambulance slow for a barrier. He stepped up onto the running board. It took him down a ramp. They stopped by doors into a basement level. He jumped down while they unloaded a wheelchair, moving fast through automatic doors into the light of the hospital. It was much like any other, but your money got you a smile from nurses and a pleasing combination of white paint and pale wood. Belsey moved past Radiography to back stairs.

Where to start? He went up a floor, out into what he soon realised was Maternity. The ward matron saw him, saw the flowers.

“Can I help?”

“I’m looking for Kirsty Craik.”

“No one on this ward by that name.”

“Can you check if she’s on any other wards?”

The matron paused to study him more closely.

“What was she admitted for?”

“She was in a car crash. I’m not one hundred percent sure.”

“How did you get in?”

“I think I’ve got the wrong hospital. Sorry.”

Belsey left the ward fast, returned to the stairs. He ran up them, staring through the glass strips in the doors to each floor until he saw one with conspicuous security: suits with earpieces crowding the corridor. He was wondering what to do when Gary Finch emerged from a room on the corridor. He had a younger, more elegant companion with him. Belsey ran back down a flight. He heard the door above him open and the two men join him on the emergency stairs.

“Those aren’t my instructions,” Finch said. “They’re Lord Strathmore’s.”

“My concern is that those who will ultimately be held accountable remain informed of developments.” The younger man was a lot smoother of voice. They were coming down the stairs towards Belsey. Belsey kept a flight ahead.

“They don’t want to remain informed.”

“My fear is that his Lordship is overestimating the influence he still wields.”

“A DA Notice will solve nothing and involves notifying the Permanent Secretary.”

“But there is a standing notice. We could alert the press to their responsibilities.”

“Alert them is precisely what we are
not
trying to do.”

The stairs ran out. They were at the car park. Belsey dropped to the stained concrete and slid under a stationary minibus. He watched Finch’s shadow.

“No one’s pretending this is ideal. We will find him, and the situation will be a lot more stable. I’ll speak to Lord Strathmore now.”

Then the shadow receded, followed by a car, and he was left with neon-lit silence. Belsey slid himself out. He walked up the ramp and ducked under a barrier to Cromwell Road. He thought about how Finch’s voice had sounded: anxious, obnoxious; the voice of someone trying to borrow authority from a figure who made them nervous. Strathmore. Whoever that was.

Belsey got back into the Skoda and checked through the printouts. No Strathmore. All that was left in his bag were the med bottles, Easton’s case notes and Monroe’s book. He flicked through the book’s index to S: Secret Operations, Sleeper Agents, Stasi, Strathmore.

“Strathmore, Edward” with a subentry: “J.I.G.S.A.W., 125.”

Belsey turned to page 125 very fast. JIGSAW. The pieces were coming together. And then they didn’t.

The index had directed him to a page on Able Archer. Belsey read it three times. There was no mention of Strathmore or JIGSAW on the page. No suggestion even as to what JIGSAW might be. Belsey checked adjacent pages. It was hard to focus. He assumed it was adrenalin blinding him to the reference. But after two more attempts it was clear: there had been an infuriating and intensely curious mistake.

Belsey called Monroe. The journalist answered on the second ring.

“Nick.”

“No names or places. Your phone probably isn’t secure.”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

They needed to meet. Belsey wondered how they were going to arrange this without acquiring unwanted company. They needed refuge. There was one place, of course, that had always given them refuge. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

“I think we should get a drink,” Belsey said. “For old time’s sake.”

“Nick?”

“Only it’s past closing time.”

“It’s quarter to four in the afternoon.”

“I feel like it’s gone four in the morning,” Belsey said. “Soon it’s going to be getting light.” Monroe groaned. “We need somewhere that’s going to serve us at this kind of hour.”

“This better be good.”

“Don’t get followed.”

EAST, INTO THE CROOK OF THE RIVER, THE TANGLE OF
sullen development that ran between Docklands and the Isle of Dogs. Belsey parked on East India Dock Road, stole some tarpaulin off a skip and covered the car. He weaved a labyrinthine route down soulless streets, past the DLR and the new plastic apartments that crowded the place before you turned a corner and looked up and realised you were in the foothills of Canary Wharf.

Through to the fish market. No one was following.