The Plantagenet Vendetta (29 page)

Jen sipped slowly from her wine. It was a good yarn, no doubt, but the story made little sense. “Has anyone ever been inside to check?”

“I assure you they have not – the key has been missing since the early days.”

She didn’t buy it. “Why was there a door included at all if it was meant to be sealed in?”

“A most excellent point. Against the wishes of the majority, Edward’s son wished to be buried in the crypt. After his death, the wall behind the door was apparently filled in.”

Jen took a deep breath but for now remained silent.

The idea beggared belief.

“Wow, I’ve certainly learned a thing or two about the history of Wootton-on-the-Moor.”

The former headmaster laughed. “I assure you, you haven’t even scratched the surface. Away from the folklore, I think you’ll find that history is indeed more fascinating than myth.”

The waitress returned with the bill.

“I must offer to pay for that delicious dessert.”

“Nonsense, my dear, nonsense, you’ve truly made an old man’s evening.”

Jen smiled. She placed her handbag over her shoulder. “Surely there is something I can do to show my appreciation.”

“How are you fixed tomorrow?”

She shrugged.

“There is a fine display of medieval keepsakes at the heritage centre. What say the two of us have a morning of real history?”

She didn’t know what to say. “Thanks, I really can’t think of anything else I’ve got on.”

They left the dining room and returned to the bar area. Lord Ratcliffe was standing by the counter.

“Ey up, Francis, does Alma know?”

Lovell clapped his hands together, a loud swift bang. “My dear Richard, please assure me your discretion. I fear the shock would very near kill her, and that me.”

The politician laughed. “Come with us to the back room. I’ve just got William a brandy.”

Lovell turned to face Jen. “My dear, I’m afraid I must humour the fellow. To say no to the Rat would be like saying yes to an Alsatian, with something more valuable than money, I might add.”

Ratcliffe laughed loudly.

“My dear, it’s been a pleasure.” He kissed her on the hand.

Jen fought a blush, but failed. “Thank you, I really enjoyed it.”

Jen left the Hog and walked quickly across the bridge. It was after eight, and the sun was still up, the fading light flickering behind the hill.

She called Anthea on her iPhone.

“Can you meet me on the bridge? Thanks.

“Oh, and bring your mum’s keys.”

Back inside the Hog, Lovell sat down in between Catesby and Ratcliffe. Three large brandies were placed on the table in front of them. With the door closed, the conversation would remain private.

“Was she the one you saw on the camera?”

Lovell exhaled lengthily. “I’m afraid so.”

Catesby wrapped his large fingers around the glass. “That is a pity.”

Lovell nodded. “And she was such a nice girl, too.”

Anthea arrived ten minutes later, wearing trainers, jeans and her school hoody.

“What’s up?”

Jen bit her lip before responding. The priest had said the vault was for plague victims; Lovell some kind of medieval monster.

At least one of them was lying.

She removed the camera from her pocket. “It belonged to Debra Harrison.”

Anthea put her hands to her mouth. “You mean she’s…”

“I don’t know,” Jen said. “But take a look at this.”

She showed Anthea the photographs of the vault.

“I don’t understand.”

“Debra Harrison disappeared after finding a way into the restricted vault.”

Anthea was gobsmacked. “How?”

“That’s the problem:

“We have to enter it via the priory.”

41

The GPS led them to a large building in Greenwich, situated south of the water and within sight of the O2, the Royal Observatory, and the National Maritime Museum.

Caroline stopped at a red light on a busy street that was rich in tower buildings and concrete, and a bitch on the parking. Scaffolding surrounded the building opposite, and traffic cones and iron railings blocked the only entrance to the multi-storey car park.

Judging by the exterior, the inside was not inhabitable.

“Tell you what,” Stephen said, “why don’t we get out here while you find somewhere to park?”

Stephen and Thomas departed while the light was still red, leaving Caroline without opportunity to argue. They jaywalked across the street while the traffic was at a standstill, and continued toward large double doors leading to the foyer.

It was just after 7pm, and they had made good time. The sun was setting to the west of the city. A blaze of red dominated the London skyline, shining in all directions and reflecting off the glass of the skyscrapers. Large shadows had formed from the Citigroup and HSBC buildings, crossing several houses and continuing all the way to the water. Despite the pleasant weather, the river was quiet, save for one lonely barge heading in the direction of where the Docklands Arena once stood.

Stephen opened the door and took his first look at the interior. The décor was half completed – unless the designers were going for the bomb-damaged look. Several hardhat symbols were placed on the walls, accompanied by other health and safety notices.

Thomas was confused. The other side of the foyer was slightly more impressive and offered the choice of either four lifts or a staircase to the floors above.

Stephen entered the lift without consultation and scanned the buttons on the display.

“What floor is it?”

“Six.”

Stephen pressed the button. “Penthouse. Well, I never.”

The lift began its ascent.

“At least it works,” Stephen said. He removed the Glock 17 Thomas had given him from the inside of his suit and checked it was loaded.

“You best let m-me do the t-talking.”

Stephen looked at his cousin. “I don’t think we’ve got time for that.”

The doors opened, revealing an unlit corridor still to be furnished. The floor was a combination of wood and plastic covering. Countless workmen’s tools were scattered at random, ranging from hammers to tape measures. The upper part of the corridor had been freshly painted, the aroma evident in their nostrils. All of the doors were white and evidently double-glazed.

It was less obvious whether anyone was at home.

They tiptoed through the plastic, taking great care over their footing. Thomas removed his firearm from his jacket, holding it with the barrel facing upwards. Like the surgeon, he had gone through the same basic training that all the royals go through on reaching a certain age, but unlike Stephen, this was now his life. For some, a career in the forces began at Sandhurst and ended in a magnificent parade, the ribbons of war dangling from just above the heart – at least for the lucky ones. For Thomas, Sandhurst was barely even the apprenticeship; that stage of his life was still ongoing. Perhaps it would never end. That was both his choice and the choice that had already been made for him – perhaps even before he was born.

The curse of the Invisible Royal.

The address corresponded with the penultimate door on the left. On appearances alone, it was no different from the others. It was white, with a gold handle, and appeared to be deserted.

They stopped before the door, listening carefully. The sound of background noise was louder here, most notably that of the gulls. If anything, that enhanced the feeling of loneliness.

Thomas looked to his left, then to the right.

Nothing.

They were alone.

Stephen pushed the doorbell, a high-pitched chiming sound that faded almost immediately.

Ten seconds passed, no response.

“You’re sure this is the place?” Stephen asked.

Thomas didn’t reply. Silently, he shared his cousin’s concern.

Stephen took a step back and looked around: the floor, the walls, the ceiling…

“Well, if you ask me, we’ve been brought on a wild bloody goose chase.”

Thomas took a deep breath, his eyes darting side to side.

Something was troubling him.

“Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Shhh!” He placed a finger to his lips. “Listen.”

The noise was coming from nearby.

It sounded like gas escaping from a balloon.

No. It sounded like an egg frying in a pan.

No. It was acid dissolving something metallic.

Or perhaps the sound of something fizzier.

Thomas placed his ear to the door. Whatever it was, it was coming from inside the apartment.

The realisation hit Thomas immediately.

“B-b-bomb!”

Two streets away, Caroline finally found a parking space along a busy street lined with houses and shops. It said on the sign that payment must be made by phone, and required both car registration and a credit card number.

The plague of living in London.

She inserted the last three digits of the registration and huffed on realising she’d made a mistake. She listened to the options on the phone and attempted to rectify the situation.

The explosion occurred about two streets away, probably less than a quarter of a mile from where she was standing. The noise was startling, causing her to drop the phone.

A trail of dust was rising into the evening sky, the full effects partially obscured by nearby buildings. There might have been smoke as well, but she couldn’t be certain.

Whatever it was, it was coming from the building she had just dropped the boys off by.

Panicked, she picked up her mobile phone and started dialling.

Thomas acted on instinct. He grabbed Stephen’s left arm and dived.

The impact was horrific. Debris came from every angle, either crashing into their moving bodies or just missing.

They hit the floor and covered their heads, doing their best to keep dust out of their mouths and eyes.

Several seconds passed before visibility improved. The door had disappeared, that was obvious, as had most of the wall. A hole had appeared in the roof of the apartment, and it looked like more was about to cave in.

No doubt the debris could be seen from the outside.

Less obvious was exactly how far the damage went.

There was movement to Thomas’s right. Stephen was stirring. He rose slowly from his chest to his haunches, and slower still to his feet. The sound that had dominated his ears for less than two seconds was still ringing over a minute later.

Through the wreckage, Thomas could just about see into the apartment. The interior was completely bare but, as far as he could see, largely undamaged.

He saw movement followed by gunfire.

They hit the floor immediately. The clattering of bullets from an automatic weapon, accompanied by the familiar yellow blaze, had come from the living room. The bullets missed, damaging the wall behind them, just above their heads. Stephen felt a graze to his skin, then a peculiar warm sensation.

There was blood on his arm.

Thomas kept moving to his right, practically dragging Stephen with him. The gunfire continued even after they were out of sight, confirming it was coming from the middle of the apartment.

As soon as it stopped, Thomas rose to his feet and hurried toward the wall. Stephen followed less than a metre behind, adrenalin pumping.

Hyperventilation was setting in.

“They’re firing at us,” Stephen stated, his back to the wall.

“No fucking shit.”

Thomas cocked the trigger on his Glock and edged closer to what remained of the door. Instead of a door and a wall there was now a large hole, perhaps ten metres in diameter.

“Keep quite still.”

Stephen nodded, his breathing now slightly more under control.

Less than a metre away, Thomas chanced exposure, leading to further gunfire. He retreated immediately to his initial position, back to the wall.

Amidst the gunfire, Stephen’s mobile phone started ringing.

He answered. “For God’s sake, Caroline, not now.”

“Wait,” Thomas said, taking the phone. “Caroline…”

“Where are you?”

He could hear crying at the other end of the line. “Listen to me very carefully. I want you to get in t-touch with the p-palace. Tell them that s-someone’s f-firing at us and we need b-backup.”

The words stuttered out of his mouth. He hung up the phone and returned it to Stephen.

Meanwhile, the gunfire had ceased.

Thomas edged closer to the hole, allowing himself an opportunity of observation. He moved closer still, but the gunfire started again. Lunging to his right, he nearly collided with Stephen as he clattered to the floor.

He was back on his feet immediately, attempting to form a plan. The apartment was open plan; he had seen enough of it to know that. The kitchen area was to the right, the area where the gunfire was coming from. He knew he had seen a figure standing there, dressed mainly in black.

The rest was something of a blur.

He waited until the gunfire ceased before firing a couple of shots in that direction. Intuition told him at least one had been successful, perhaps fatal. He allowed what he estimated was ten seconds to go by before chancing further exposure. The figure had disappeared, which meant one of two things:

He was hit or he had moved.

Within a second Thomas had the answer. This time the gunfire came from another part of the kitchen. He took shelter immediately and waited several seconds before firing.

This time, he knew he had found his target.

He moved to the entrance, alive to the possibility that the man he had shot had a partner, and sure enough, he did.

The next round of gunfire came from the other side of the apartment. Everything about it was consistent with the last, suggesting to Thomas that the weapon was the same.

The bullets ceased after about five seconds.

Thomas reloaded. “Give it up. We have you surrounded.”

“Tell him to surrender in the name of the king,” Stephen said.

Thomas refused to dignify that with an answer.

“Come out on the c-count of five.”

The gunfire resumed. A stray bullet ricocheted off something nearby, causing Thomas to drop his gun as he dived. He waited until the gunfire had ceased before returning to his feet and running hard toward the wall. He looked for his gun, but couldn’t find it.

“Give me your gun.”

Stephen didn’t argue.

Thomas edged closer to the doorway. On this occasion he decided to hold back, wary that the man had changed position. He thought about firing one on spec, but decided against it.

His new tactic was patience.

Twenty seconds of silence felt more like a lifetime. His intuition told him that the man had moved. He inched closer to the hole, keeping his back to the wall. He entered the apartment for the first time, gun at the ready.

Whoever had been there was now gone.

He headed left, the lounge area. Stephen followed him, evidently now armed.

“You were just looking in the wrong place.”

Thomas let the insult slide. He continued to the left, whereas Stephen went to the right. Beyond the lounge was a dining area, in the other direction the bedrooms and bathroom. Thomas concluded the gunman had entered the dining room.

There was no way in hell he could have sprinted across the lounge unseen.

The dining area was minus any furniture, confirming initial suspicions that the owner was still to move in. That begged a new question:

What was he doing here?

“He’s dead.”

Thomas turned, his attention on Stephen.

“Two puncture wounds: the heart and lungs.”

Thomas continued to move. “Check his belongings.”

There was movement outside the patio window. He fired immediately, his bullets somehow failing to penetrate the glass.

Outside, the figure had disappeared again.

Thomas continued through the dining room, looking for an exit. There was an open door to the right, heading to a balcony area.

The only option was to head right. A partition wall to the left separated the property from the next one, while directly in front of him the same wall continued along the north side of the building, preventing anyone from falling over the edge. Further afield, the property offered striking views of the north side of the water, buildings recognisable beyond the village. In the last ten minutes, the sun had completely disappeared behind dense cloud, its light replaced by the occasional glow of office lighting standing out against the background like a gigantic electronic solitaire square.

Heading to the right, Thomas followed the balcony. There was a metal fire escape descending all the way to the pavement. He opened the metallic door and began down the stairway. The structure was square, divided into quarters.

He heard footsteps, followed by a gunshot. A bright orange spark was visible about twenty metres in front of him, accompanied by the sound of metal on metal. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the shot had been fired from below.

Staying as close to the wall as possible, he moved quickly down the stairs. Two gunshots followed, dangerously close.

Either he was getting nearer, or the man’s aim was getting better.

Two flights further down, Thomas saw him for the first time. Without question, he was getting closer, no more than a single flight behind. The signs on the stairway told him he was now on the second floor, which tallied with his views out across the river.

A fourth gunshot followed, this one disturbingly close. Sparks appeared merely centimetres in front of him, making a mark on his wrist. The sudden occurrence caused him to fall on his back, though the fall was less painful than the burn. He returned to his feet without breaking stride, and picked up the pace as he approached level 1.

He heard something from down below. A door opened, thick and heavy judging by the sound. Seconds later he saw it himself, a typical fire escape that needed to be opened by pressing a bar.

He emerged on a side street adjoining the road where they had exited the car some twenty minutes earlier. The figure was moving along the banks of the Thames, heading roughly in the direction of the O2.

Thomas wasted no time. He followed the man at speed along the road known as Riverside, at this hour devoid of either humans or cars. Across the water, the buildings surrounding Lyle Park and the Thames Barrier Park passed by in a flash of colour.

On reaching Greenwich Peninsula Ecology Park, he headed to the left and sprinted through the greenery. Thomas emerged on West Parkside, a busy main road with cars racing by in both directions. Ahead of him, the gunman took a chance dashing across the road, barely making it unscathed.

Thomas cursed his luck. Several seconds passed before he was across himself. The shooter was now progressing rapidly along Child Lane, a smart residential area. About a hundred metres in front of him, he could see the man climb aboard a motorbike. Seconds later, he saw Caroline running toward him.

She had parked on the other side of the road.

“Follow that motorbike.”

“What?”

Thomas changed direction before she was able to respond. The motorbike had roared into life, making its way south.