The Silent Room (13 page)

He picked up immediately.

‘Any joy with that BMW?’ she asked, getting in.

‘Yup, we’re good to go.’

‘Did your mate ask why you needed it?’

‘He’s Job. He knows better.’

‘I like him already.’

Grace rang off and made another call. The guy on the other end owed her a favour. It was time to call it in. Ordering a set of number plates, she told him she’d send someone to collect and pay for them first thing in the morning. No names were mentioned. No receipts required. Hanging up, she drove away.

Further on, she scanned the street. Spotting a horse-chestnut tree, she pulled up alongside and got out. Collecting a handful of fallen leaves from the ground, she shoved them surreptitiously in her bag, climbed into her car and continued on her journey, arriving home a few minutes later.

She packed away her shopping, satisfied that her idea had legs. While she was out, Ryan had cooked a simple shepherd’s pie. When Newman got back, they all sat down to eat. The spook was none the wiser from his trip round the safe houses. He hadn’t seen the BMW in any location visited. He’d returned hungry and weary, much like Grace. For the first time since they had met, Newman and Ryan seemed to hit it off over the meal. This was gratifying for Grace, given that she had to go out again. She had an urgent errand to run.

Leaving them deep in conversation, she left the house and made her way across the road, returning fifteen minutes later, armed with a couple of weighty plastic bags and a walking stick with a bone handle in the shape of a wolf’s head. Not ideal for her needs, but not far from it. In the art of subterfuge, she’d been taught never to use a prop that might draw unwelcome attention or could easily be traced. But, on this occasion, she couldn’t help herself.

She smiled at the irony.

All she needed was the sheep’s clothing.

Mounting the stairs two at a time, she went off for a dress rehearsal. Setting the contents of the two bags out on her bed – clothing, wig, costume jewellery and stage makeup borrowed from a neighbour heavily into amateur dramatics – she took her time applying face powder and pink blusher, pencilling in overly arched eyebrows and slapping on lippy too dark for the pale complexion of the octogenarian she was trying to create.

Next, she changed clothes: thick tights, a grey skirt, a flowery blouse done up to the neck, a bulky cardigan, an overcoat, scarf and flat black heavy shoes with laces. The grey wig was a perfect fit. She added a hat, picked up her walking stick and looked in the mirror. She had to admit, the transformation was amazing. Even her mother wouldn’t have recognized her.
She was her mother.

25

First thing Monday morning they breakfasted together, Ryan and Grace opting for a full English to keep them going all day Newman helping himself to muesli, the eating of which he managed to turn into an art form.

This guy did nothing in a hurry.

Afterwards, Grace sent him off to pick up her dodgy registration plates and Ryan to collect his friend’s BMW while she got dressed for the performance of her life. By the time the two men returned, shortly after nine, she was cloaked in the invisibility of old age.

Ryan fitted the plates while Newman took the leaves she’d collected the night before and super-glued them under the windscreen wipers, enough to obscure the tax disc without raising suspicion.

‘You ready?’ he said.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ Grace answered in an old lady’s voice.

She drove to the supermarket, parking up in a spot she’d chosen on her previous visit, making sure the car was in full view of CCTV. With the aid of her walking stick, the handle taped over to hide the wolf’s head, she hobbled into the store, bought a newspaper and made her way to the cafe, where she overstayed the three-hour parking limit, knowing it would trigger the issuing of a ticket, then she shuffled up to the information desk, apologizing profusely for having done so.

Although sympathetic, the tall, thin lad behind the counter couldn’t do anything to assist her. He didn’t brush her off. On the contrary, he took his time explaining that it wasn’t up to him to police the car parking area. Although employed by his management, the security company responsible for that side of the business would most probably spit out a fine automatically if an offence had been committed.

Grace knew they were shit hot. A friend of hers had been caught more than once and had received fixed-penalty notifications in the post the very next day. Employing the most distressed face she could muster, Grace peered at the lad through a pair of bifocals, telling him she was only just managing on her small pension and had no money with which to pay a substantial fine.

‘Someone told me it will be seventy pounds,’ she said, her bottom lip quivering.

The lad tried for reassurance. ‘Less if you settle within seven days.’

‘But still . . .’ Reaching for the counter, Grace feigned distress. ‘I lost my husband. Please,’ she begged. ‘I can’t pay.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The lad seemed genuinely upset by her predicament, his face the picture of understanding. He took a sheet of paper from under the counter and held it out to her. ‘Here are details of the security company. Why don’t you give them a ring?’

‘Could you? I’m not good on the phone.’

There was a moment of hesitation. ‘OK. What’s the registration number?’

‘Bless you.’ Grace reeled off the number of her false plates.

The lad made the call, explaining her situation almost word for word. From the look on his face, he was getting the precise reaction she’d anticipated: indifference. Repeating the registration number, he paused, listening to the person on the other end, his expression one of regret. Asking them to wait on the line, he covered the speaker with his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The ticket has already been issued.’

‘Really?’ Grace checked the clock behind his head. ‘But it’s only one thirty. I’m only an hour overdue.’

‘He said that he needs a word.’ The lad held out the phone. ‘Apparently, the registration number has come up as a blocked vehicle. He’s asking for your name and address.’

‘Oh no!’
Oh yes!
Grace dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I haven’t been truthful with you, young man. That’s because I . . . I bought the vehicle from the police and now I’m concerned because I’ve not yet informed the DVLA. I’ve changed my mind about the ticket. Please tell him I want to pay.’

Taking the receiver, the lad did his best, then shook his head and handed her the phone.

This time she took it. ‘Hello,’ she said, her voice all of a quiver.

‘I need your name and address, madam.’

‘Can’t I appeal?’

‘No, sorry, pet.’ He sounded nothing of the kind. ‘I don’t get the money myself, you understand. I just work here. I’ve heard every excuse in the book as to why people don’t deserve a ticket.’ He laughed. ‘Take my advice: don’t appeal it. Clear the debt and take more care next time. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief.’

Patronizing bastard.

Grace gave him dodgy details, rang off and left the store.

Only when she’d cleared the car park did she call Ryan, letting him know that the surveillance vehicle was blocked. That meant that the car was definitely official. O’Neil, Maguire . . . or maybe not . . . it could be CID or, even worse, someone from the Security Service, as Newman had already hinted at. If so, they were operating independently of the police. That begged a worrying question. Was a department or organization other than Professional Standards after Jack?

26

Ryan put down the phone. The blocking of the BMW by the DVLA only told half the story. The vehicle might well be official, but there was an alternative to the teams Grace had suggested might be responsible for the surveillance operation.

‘What’s stopping clever offenders cloning a vehicle and making out they’re someone they’re not? If Grace can do it, anyone can.’

Newman was nodding. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘The important thing is finding out who exactly they are.’

‘Agreed. Tell me who to track and I’m on it.’

They waited until Grace got back for a debrief. After a short discussion, they agreed to lay a trap. Grace had done her bit for the day, so Ryan asked Newman to drop him in town behind the Central Station, away from prying eyes. They couldn’t afford for the wrong people to see Newman’s car and track them to Grace’s. The two men left the house immediately.

Newman parked in Forth Street. Ryan got out and walked to Times Square multistorey, where his own car was parked. He paid his dues, collected his Discovery from the fourth floor and drove out of the car park, turning right and right again, then along Forth Street, straight past Newman, who was poised to follow on behind.

A few seconds later, Newman called him. ‘BMW behind you with two-car cover,’ he said.

‘Got him.’ Ryan replied. ‘OK to lose him?’

‘Be my guest. I also have cover.’

‘OK, good luck. Let me know what gives.’

Newman grinned as Ryan pulled away. The BMW followed suit and so did he. Trying to keep up with Ryan in the city would take all the concentration of any surveillance team, even more so if they were sloppy. These clowns in the Beamer were so incompetent, he was sure that while they were looking ahead, they wouldn’t be taking any notice of what was going on behind. In twenty minutes, they had lost Ryan completely.

The BMW slowed and stopped.

Pulling up on the other side of the road, Newman saw the driver slam a hand on the dash in frustration, ranting at his co-driver. The surveillance team, such as it was, had fallen for their deception and been outclassed. Newman was impressed with Ryan. He’d made losing them look like child’s play.

The guys in the BMW cruised around for almost two hours trying to pick up the scent, checking car parks, on and off-street. If they were official, Newman knew they would do anything rather than return to base and tell their supervision that they had failed once again in their mission to keep an eye on their target. As darkness fell, it became obvious that Ryan had vanished into the chaos of rush hour as many thousands poured into their cars trying to make it home.

Pressing a speed-dial button on his phone, Newman kept an eye on the BMW and gave Ryan a call, updating him on where he was and his direction of travel, giving a running commentary of his changing position through the hands-free as he drove. Eventually, the Beamer stopped outside a grotty pub in an unlit road on the edge of an industrial estate. Its two occupants got out and went inside, presumably to lick their wounds and get their story straight for when they returned to base. Newman waited a few minutes, making sure the coast was clear, then got out of his car as Ryan pulled up behind, killing his lights.
Game on.

There was never any dispute which of them would attach the tracker. As a serving police officer it wasn’t fair to ask Ryan to do it. And, with a history of covert operations in MI5, Newman was well placed to take on the task.

He moved quickly and got to the car unseen.

Attaching a comms transmitter to his lapel, Ryan looked on as the spook dropped to the ground, reaching under the rear end of the vehicle to attach the tracking device. Ryan guessed that Frank Newman wasn’t his real name. It would be one he’d inherited in the service of Her Majesty, a handle that had arrived complete with legend. New background. New identity. Untraceable. A history that bore some truth, enough to convince anyone who looked into it – probably someone MI5 knew was already dead and buried.

The sound of a door opening made Ryan freeze.

A shaft of light lit up the street and then died as a well-built male came outside, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. If he hadn’t sparked up, Ryan would’ve lost him in the darkness. The man moved forward, dragging heavily on his cigarette, the glowing ember pinpointing his position.

‘They’re on the move,’ Ryan whispered, retreating into the shadows. ‘Abort! Abort! Unidentified figure approaching at your three o’clock.’

Newman was quick to react. Rolling over, he clasped hold of the underside of the BMW and heaved himself underneath without making a sound. The smoker didn’t move. He took another hit of nicotine, before the door opened again and a second male joined him.

Shit!
The two men were heading straight for the car.

As they got in, Ryan’s first thought was to step forward and speak to them. He hesitated. That moment of indecision meant he was too slow to intervene. Car doors slammed shut. The vehicle’s engine started up. Lights came on and it drove away. Ryan held his breath and his position until the taillights disappeared from view, his heart beating rapidly, eyes straining to readjust to the darkness. Taking a mini-Maglite from his pocket, he shone it along the road to where the car had been parked. Newman was lying there motionless. Ryan listened, watched. There was no movement of any kind, no sound, not even a whisper of wind through the chain-link fence and surrounding vegetation.

‘Newman? You OK?’

No answer.

‘Newman?’

Moving closer, Ryan’s stomach knotted. An image of Grace entered his head as she shared a private joke with Newman that
he
wasn’t party to. At some point in the past, their relationship had been really special. Despite years apart, it was clear that their feelings for one another hadn’t diminished. Ryan had observed the odd lingering look, the occasional supporting hand on her shoulder, a sexual tension as tender as lovers half their age.

They were still very much in love.

Ryan was trying to figure out what to say to her when Newman got up, rubbing his head where it had bounced off the tarmac when the guys got in and started up the car. ‘That was a tight squeeze,’ he said, brushing muck from his jumper. ‘I’m glad there was only two of them. The suspension wasn’t up to much.’

‘You mad bastard. They could’ve driven over you!’

‘Relax – they didn’t.’

Ryan let out a long breath. He had no need to comfort Grace on the sudden death of a lost love. Somehow they had managed to get away with it. They had a tracker on the car. Job done.