Fear of the Fathers (8 page)

“Of course. I thought you might like the moral support. And anyway, it'll be fun. I'm sure Stratton knew a lot of colourful characters. I know it sounds like a cliché, but I really believe that you should celebrate somebody's life.”

“You're right,” said Stella. “The only thing is that they'll be keeping his spirit alive, when all I want to do is let go.”

“I'm sure it will be more of a help than a hindrance.”

Stella felt comforted by Cronin's optimism. He was the sort of person you needed around when things were looking gloomy. He was patient and kind, and never became exasperated or lost his temper. She imagined that, even if the world was about to end, Cronin would retain an inviolable equanimity. He would make someone the perfect husband, she thought. If only he wasn't married to God.

Crossing Vauxhall Bridge Stella did a double take in the mirror. Four cars back she noticed a silver Vectra. This was nothing in itself, but she had seen a similar vehicle in the Angel car park. Of course, it was a common enough car – there was just something about the way it was being driven that made her suspicious.

“Is someone on our tail?” said a bemused Cronin.

“I don't know,” said Stella. “Maybe. But like I said – I'm naturally suspicious.”

Cronin took a quick look back. “If I might ask – who would want to follow you? Have you got enemies?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” shrugged Stella. “It's just a feeling I've got. It's probably nothing.”

“Which car is it?”

“Silver Vectra, four cars back.”

Cronin craned his neck to get a view. His eyes flashed briefly with concern. Stella didn't notice. He kept his composure. “I can't see it,” he said. “I'm sure there's nothing to worry about anyway.”

“You're probably right. I'm just being paranoid.”

She turned onto the Embankment and headed towards Earl's Court. The two cars directly behind went the other way, leaving only one between her and the Vectra. She adjusted her wing mirror to try and get a view of the driver, but to no avail. To her relief, it turned right at the next set of lights.

“Well, I guess it was paranoia,” she said, smiling and thumbing another B&H out of the packet.

“It's gone then?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

She lit the cigarette and took a sharp drag. She didn't understand what was making her so edgy. After all, as Father Cronin had pointed out, who would want to follow her? Her links with Special Branch had been all but severed, and she was no longer involved with private security. The only people she'd pissed off recently were acne-ridden shoplifters, and it seemed unlikely that one of them would be mounting a well-oiled surveillance operation in the name of revenge. No, there was no reason to be jumpy. And yet there was something making her uncomfortable, a lingering doubt overpowering her usually resolute rationality.

They passed Earl's Court and turned towards Hammersmith. Stella was starting to feel tired. The pint of lager she'd drunk, whilst not putting her over the limit, was having a soporific effect. She stifled a yawn.

“Long day?” asked Cronin.

“Not really,” she replied. “It's the beer. I'm not very good with afternoon drinking, it always makes me sleepy. I shall probably grab an hour when I get home.”

“I'm the same. Although, don't get the wrong idea – I don't do an awful lot of afternoon drinking.”

Stella laughed. “I shouldn't imagine you do. But then again, aren't you Catholic priests renowned for having a tipple?”

“Maybe in books, films, and
Father Ted
,” grinned Cronin. “But in reality we're far less bibulous. Well, most of us anyway.”

Five minutes later Stella pulled up outside Our Lady of Grace & St Edward Roman Catholic Church, Chiswick. Father Cronin unbuckled his seatbelt.

“I hope I was of some use today,” he said.

“You've been great,” Stella smiled. “Like I said, it was really good of you to give up your afternoon to help.”

Cronin opened his door and got out. “It was a pleasure. Give me a call about next Sunday.” He said goodbye and closed the car door behind him.

Stella drove off, glad to be nearly home. She was looking forward to crashing out on the sofa for the evening. She didn't notice the silver Vectra pulling out of a side road two hundred yards behind.

Kamaljit Singh sat on the hotel bed watching the news with interest. Two days had passed, and the assassination attempt was still the main headline. He smiled as the anchorman continued to harp on about the menace of Al-Qaeda, and their threat to the foundations of modern society. So long as the terror group were getting the blame it kept him in the clear. Particularly pleasing was the photo fit that had been constructed – it looked absolutely nothing like him. It was amazing what you could do with some latex and a fake beard. He wondered if it would ever get to the stage where they started making false arrests.

Satisfied he was still in the clear, he turned off the television and got out his laptop. He logged on to the Internet and went straight to his Swiss account. A scowl crossed his face as he checked the balance. There was still no sign of the transfer he'd been expecting. Half a million dollars before and half a million after had been the deal. He was beginning to think that the second payment was being held back. It should have been in there at noon yesterday. He looked at his watch: they were thirty hours late. If it wasn't in there by tomorrow afternoon he would have to start making noises.

He phoned room service, ordered dinner, and went to take a shower.

After towelling down and putting on fresh clothes, he sat cross-legged on the bed and meditated, losing himself in a comfortable void. He stayed there until room service knocked.

The girl was courteous and, he thought, extremely beautiful. She had delivered most of his meals during his stay. She wheeled in the trolley and set out his food on a table in the corner. He watched closely, unable to take his eyes off her. She was white with long dark hair, and sparkly blue eyes. Her body seemed firm and athletic. She looked too good to be slaving away as a dogsbody in a hotel. Perhaps it was a part-time job to see her through college.

She lay out the cutlery and turned to him and smiled. “Is that everything sir?”

Singh gave the table a cursory glance. “I believe so,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

“Well, if you need anything else, just ring,” she said flirtatiously.

“I will…hold on a second,” he said, and turned to get his wallet from the bedside cabinet. As a rule he would tip five pounds at the most, but this girl had enthralled him. He drew out a twenty pound note. Behind him the girl was quiet. Too quiet. He looked up just in time to see her shadow silently edging towards him.

He span round in a defensive stance, his arms forming a blockade. The girl's right arm was raised to strike. On her fingertip was a small, pinkish, rubber patch. With ophidian speed Singh grabbed her wrist and wrenched her arm. She yelped as she fell to her knees. Then, with expert precision, he squeezed the pressure point to the side of her neck, and the girl slumped to the floor like a dying swan.

He picked up her flimsy form and laid her face down on the bed. After ripping a couple of strips from the bed sheets he tied her hands and legs. A sock and another strip formed an effective makeshift gag.

Satisfied that she was no longer a danger he sat down to eat his food. He was paying good money for his dinner, and he wasn't going to allow anything to spoil it. He poured himself a glass of Krug and set about the large buttered lobster on his plate.

In the background he heard muffled moaning. He turned to see the girl struggling on the bed. Raising a finger to his lips he shook his head and gave her a cold stare. She got the message and immediately lay still. He continued to attack the lobster, wondering who she was and who had sent her.

After finishing his lobster and a quite delightful crème brûlée he turned his attention back to his hostage. She was staring aimlessly at the ceiling. He brought his chair to the end of the bed and played thoughtfully with the small patch that she'd clumsily attempted to place on his neck. He'd seen one before. One side was smooth, the other covered with tiny spikes designed to break the skin. The inside would be filled with poison.

“Death by cyanide,” he said casually. “Not very original, but efficacious nevertheless. Was this your idea? Or was it someone else's?”

The girl raised her head. Her eyes welled with tears.

Singh cocked his head. “Ahh, bless you,” he mocked. “Waterworks – the last refuge of the vanquished woman. You did not seem that tearful when you were about to stick this on me.” He waved the patch at her.

The girl continued to cry. Singh continued to stare impassively. The sheer awkwardness of her attack led him to believe that she was no professional, yet he couldn't be sure. She had certainly been professional enough to put him off guard.

“Save your tears, they will not work on me my dear. Whoever you are, you have bitten off much more than you can chew, as they say.” He got out of his chair and approached her. “Now, I am going to untie the gag. If you scream I shall stick this patch on you. And, seeing as you were going to do the same to me, I assume you realize that it will be fatal?”

The girl looked puzzled.

Singh untied the strip of material and removed the sock from her mouth. She started to hyperventilate. He squeezed her arm softly. “Now, my dear. There's no need to get in a state. Just try and slow your breathing down.”

Still sobbing, she attempted to comply.

“That's it,” he said gently. “Nice and slow. Panicking never helps. If you are edgy, then I am edgy…” He paused. “…And that would be dangerous,” he added icily for effect.

The girl registered the message and calmed down almost immediately.

“Good,” said Kamal. “Very good. Now we are getting somewhere. There is no point trying to appeal to my better nature – I do not have one. It is better that you are honest with me. Give me the truth and I might just let you live…Now, tell me, who are you and who are you working for?”

Having regained her composure the girl stayed stubbornly silent.

“I see,” said Kamal. “But silence will not help your cause. You will talk, or you will die.”

Again the girl said nothing.

Kamal went to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. The girl was not going to talk, and soon someone would come looking for her. He didn't want to be around when they showed up. His problems were mounting.

He quickly decided there was only one viable course of action. He gagged the girl again, packed his bag, and retrieved his Browning 9mm from under the mattress. He stood in front her weighing the gun in his hand.

She looked at him in terror.

He removed the safety.

Jennings ended the call and put his mobile on the desk. He leant back in his chair, stretched his arms, and yawned. It was 10pm and he still had another nine hours on duty. Although ‘duty' just meant staying awake. The occasional circuit of the house wasn't really much of a chore.

It was his first official shift for the PM. The day before, after learning of his new post, he'd gone home to Oxford and packed a suitcase full of clothes and essentials. He'd informed his neighbour below that he would only be home periodically for a while, and asked if she could watch over the place and keep his mail for him. He had been back in London by eight in the evening.

His quarters were well-appointed and homely. The room was large, about twenty foot square, with a double bed, fitted wardrobes, two chests of drawers, and a writing desk in the corner. There was a 40” plasma TV on the wall, and a DVD player and stereo. There was wireless broadband for his laptop. He also had his own en-suite bathroom and shower. It was like staying in a good hotel.

His phone call had been from Stella. She had told him about the ‘memorial' she was planning for the following Sunday. He was glad that she was at last starting to do something positive. In his opinion she'd been moping about for far too long. If he hadn't been so busy, he would have helped with something like this a lot sooner. It was going to take her a long time to recover fully, if she ever did, but at least this would be a start.

Pleased as he was with her news, he wasn't too sure about this priest who'd suddenly entered her life like a whirlwind of salvation. Her conversation had been almost entirely based around this new fixture: Father Cronin this, Father Cronin that – it sounded as if Father Cronin was the second coming. She'd only known him for two days and already it seemed like he'd taken control of her life. It wouldn't be a surprise if he was out of a job by the end of the week, he thought, due to Father Cronin having single-handedly brought about world peace.

Realizing his mind was wandering into the realms of greenness, he checked himself and looked at the plus side of this new friendship. For one, Stella was beginning to sound a bit like her old self again. And secondly, it meant that there was not so much onus on him to help her through. It wasn't that he felt burdened by the situation, it was just that he felt helpless and unable to deal with it properly, or rationally. He cared for Stella a lot, too much in fact, to be able to give her the impartial, unconditional support she needed. As time had gone on, he had become increasingly worried about his motives for assisting in her rehabilitation. His feelings grew more confused each time he saw her. It had got to the point where he felt as if he was dragging her, kicking and screaming, over the threshold of bereavement solely for his own benefit.