Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read; reviewed, alerted and favourite this story; your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Also, apologies for the delay in this update, it was meant to be posted a few days ago but life conspired against me. Thank you again for reading, and reviews would be very much appreciated.
Chapter Four: 2+2=MI5
The atmosphere in the meeting room was unusually calm. Harry reclined in his seat at the head of the table, glancing over each of his Officers in turn as though in silent appraisal. His gaze, however, settled on Ruth sat at his right-hand side, and softened almost imperceptibly. Lucas took note of it, and suppressed a small, knowing smile. To everyone else it was as plain as day; if only Harry and Ruth themselves could be brought to admit it? He cut off his train of though and glanced across the table at Ros, as though he wanted to say something about it. But she was looking back at him, her jaw set firm her expression its usual glacial passivity, and brought himself back to the business at hand.
"We have one witness, Clara Walsh, secure in a safe house. Her intel is limited, but there are genuine concerns for her safety," he explained to the room as he got up, and flicked a remote at a screen. Instantaneously, a large black and white photograph of a middle aged man appeared. "This Gentleman is Francis Morris, aka Frankie: Darren O'Casey's closest business associate. Ruth, can you tell us what you have on him?"
The mention of her name always seemed to give Ruth a jolt, causing her to scrabble at her papers before swiftly pulling herself together. She and Lucas exchanged a glance as he returned to his seat and Ruth took his place at the head of the room, behind Harry's seat.
"Francis Morris is forty-six years old, and lives in Berkshire with his wife, Deborah Morris. One possible proposal is that we send someone in to sound her out as a possible Asset," Ruth explained, flicking another button on the remote, making the image of a well-kept woman appear on the screen. "However, what's more interesting is that Francis Morris has already taken over the running of Darren O'Casey's two nightclubs, with the Boxing Club being handed over to an, as yet, unidentified third party. The nightclubs are still sealed, so if we could get in there, we could rig the premises up. Malcolm, perhaps you have some suggestions?"
All eyes in the room turned to Malcolm, who was sat at the far end of the table opposite Jo. His eyes glittered with excitement as Ruth plunged him into his techie element.
"Well, there's the traditional phone tapping devices we can install, more in the wall cavities, and in a bar I suspect there's a myriad of places we could set up secret cameras," he explained, covering the obvious basics first. "If we get the bars, staff areas and private offices where the business is conducted under secret surveillance first, we can listen in any time of day or night and find out what they're up to."
As soon as natural pause came, Ros quickly filled it. "We know that O'Casey had detonators for explosives hidden in his flat. I want to know if that's what his old colleagues were looking for. If we pick up anything to do with that, we go in there under cover as potential arms dealers and catch them red-handed-"
"But first we need to get that information through surveillance," Harry interjected. "It's simple. You, Ros, call around to the main club posing as an interior designer. Take Lucas, your resident handyman, with you and rig up all the devices as you go along. In and out again, no interruptions. With a bit of luck, because it's the middle of the day, Morris won't even be on the premises. How does that sit with you both?"
Ros and Lucas exchanged another look across the table.
"I'm good to go," said Lucas, with a shrug.
Ros nodded almost imperceptibly. "Fine by me."
Harry smiled, satisfied that the investigation was finally moving forwards with a definite target in sight. He turned to Jo, with just a few loose ends to tie up.
"Jo, perhaps if you could call around to Deborah Morris's home with a nice bunch of flowers from her husband, that could be a good contact point and it would be easier to get her talking about him. Just put the feelers out for now," he said. "Then, after that, I want you to call in on Clara Walsh and bring a print out of this picture of our new esteemed friend, Mr Morris; see if that was the man she saw at the Docks on the evening of O'Casey's murder."
"Okay," she agreed, already getting to her feet. "Just get me an Interflora uniform and I'm good for it."
A murmur of agreement, a sigh of relief, rippled around the room as they all got up to start preparing for the first stages of the investigation proper. Ros had felt keenly that their quarry had remained two steps ahead of them, thus far, and their only credible witness had proven to have only limited use, while simultaneously turning out to be another endangered soul in need of protection.
To busy herself before the start of their field op, Ros contented herself with watching Lucas rifling through the various overalls and handyman-esque attire that was actually kept on the premises. It was an old one, but an invaluable one. She could see him through the open door of the gents as he dressed. He was leaning against the wall, balanced on one leg as he swapped his smart shoes for boots. It was odd to see him so unkempt, and his day-old stubble added a certain something to give him a rough edge appeal of the burly worker. She wasn't about to admit that, though.
"You look like Bob the Builder," she laughed as he straightened up, revealing his overalled finest in full. "All you need is the tool belt and damn cat."
He smirked at her as he topped his new ensemble off with a pale blue baseball cap. "Well, I'm certainly fixing it," he quipped, giving her a gentle nudge towards the door of the Grid.
Ros rolled her eyes. "That was painful, Lucas. Just painful." She pushed herself away from the wall and strode off towards the Ladies where she herself would change into a sharp suit, attempting to impersonate whatever it was that trendy interior designers looked like. Once that was done, they would finally be getting somewhere.
Channel hopping had lost its appeal a long time ago for Clara Walsh. Nevertheless, she pointed the remote at the flat screen three feet in front of her, and zapped again. Cookery shows; mind-numbing game shows; property development programmes and surreal reality TV. It had all lost its appeal over the last day or so. Ever since she had seen her first ever dead body, she felt that she ought to frown on such trivialities, like her life had taken on a new edge of seriousness that could no longer accommodate the mundane. Even "I Desperately Wish I Was Still a Celebrity … Get Me in There" had lost its quirky appeal, and normally she and her girlfriends would hungrily devour each twist and turn as though the fate of the nation depended on it.
Accordingly, and much more in keeping with the turn of austere seriousness that her life had just taken, Clara channel hopped all the way over to the BBC News Channel, However, in respect of the old Clara Walsh, the talking heads delivering the latest economic woes, endless foreign wars and tales of third world misery washed over her like last night's bath water. The voyeuristic eye of the TV news crews made her feel slightly dirty. Other people's misery always had a way of making your own seem almost pleasant.
It was too much. The new house she found herself in; it had a panic alarm and no outside phone line. She was told by her MI5 Officers that she was forbidden to make contact with the outside world. Not her friends, and not even her Mum. Her mother would worry, though. Janice Walsh had been the first person that Clara had contacted (after the Police) when she found the murdered body of Darren O'Casey. Now she had found herself sucked into an opaque bubble of witness protection; her existence in suspension until…. Until when, she did not know.
Clara's only ray of light was that at least Sparky had been allowed to come with her to this "safe house." He lay on the threadbare rug, curled up where the fire would normally be. Like his owner, the drudgery of this new place seemed to send him into something of a torpor. But, at least he could still chase rabbits in his dreams. She watched, his paw going into spasm as he chased them then, before the news readers voice cut into her thoughts and gave her a violent jolt:
"A nineteen year old Ukranian, Alexei Amaliyev, has been arrested on the suspicion of the murder of East London Businessman, Darren O'Casey. It is thought that Mister Amaliyev was working for a Business Associate of Mister O'Casey at the time of his murder…"
The news report continued as Clara looked on, horror struck, at the news item. The man she saw was much older than nineteen. The voices she briefly heard were all local Cockneys, not Eastern European.
"The murder weapon, a handgun, was found in Mister Amaliyev's belongings being held at his place of work in South London. He is being detained by the Metropolitan Police in central London, and is thought that he will be charged with murder of the first degree by this afternoon. Our Crime Correspondent brings us this report…"
The camera panned onto one of the Chief Superintendent that Clara had spoken to only the day before. She had forgotten his name, but the caption on the screen provided a timely reminder. Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, hastily scribbled down his name and rank before folding it into the back pocket of her jeans.
"... My Officers worked hard around the clock to bring this shocking murder to a speedy conclusion, and I congratulate them all…"
"No!" Clara found herself shaking her head, almost shouting at the screen before she remembered there was a man outside from MI5 listening in. "They've fit him up!" she whispered to no one, her head suddenly in a tailspin.
She had been suspicious of MI5 taking her in. The questions they asked, the way they had secluded her from her family. Now, they have set up an innocent man. It's what they do, she thought to herself, these spies. Two plus two equals MI5, and as far as she knew, she would be next. An accomplice, perhaps? She got up, pulling the dog by the collar to wake him before she made for the bedroom. She didn't have much with her, just an old shoulder bag and her purse with her cards in it. An old hoodie was stuffed into the bag, and she put on her trainers, lacing them tight before grabbing a ball for the dog. Once she was back downstairs again, she wrote a quick note that simply read: "I know you have the wrong man; gone to the Police."
She folded it, and left it behind the clock on the mantel piece above the empty hearth. The dog, Sparky, sniffed at her heels now, sensing a walk coming on. She clicked her fingers at him, showing him the ball.
"Come on, boy!" she trilled at him, trying to keep her tone even. But her nerves were shot.
The Officer assigned to her was sat in the kitchen, hunched over a copy of the Metro and looking thoroughly bored. He didn't look up as Clara and the dog entered the small kitchen area.
"I'm taking the dog into the garden," she said, still struggling to bite down the note of panic in her voice. "We'll be back in later."
She knew full well he would not simply let her wander off. But, to her relief, he simply lifts his heavy-lidded eyes from the print to her and nods. "Give us a shout if you need anything."
Not bloody likely, she thought as she closed the back door behind her.
The back garden was the size of a postage stamp, and heavily over-grown. But the cool, fresh air helped clear her head and plan her next move. She couldn't imagine why MI5 spies had set up that man, but that wasn't for her to suss. She had to get to the Police and let them know what had happened before they could get to her, too. She tossed the ball over the high garden wall, aware that the Officer was watching her from the kitchen window. She suddenly felt transparent; like the man could see beneath her skin and read her inner-most thoughts. But before she could dwell on that, she turned and ran back into the kitchen. The man was still at the table, though, and not watching her after all.
"The ball's gone over the wall, I better go get it," she informed the Officer.
He sighed audibly and closed the paper he was reading, rolling his eyes. "Stay here; I'll get it."
He got up to leave and she followed. He had to go two doors down, round a corner and into a back alley to retrieve the ball she threw. Time was scarce, so immediately she made a run for it in the opposite direction. The dog was still yapping in the back garden, and it pained her to leave him. But she had no time to fetch him. Her heart beat raced, sweat breaking out over her body as she willed her legs to run faster and faster. The street became a blur as she spun round a corner without slowing down, and had to grab a sign post to stop herself careering into the road.
Clara paused, looked up and down the street, but found herself at the mouth of the alley that ran behind her safe house. There was no sign of the Officer, but she heard his voice calling her name. He was in the street at the front of the house, and she had no doubt he would be in pursuit. She doubled over, took a deep breath, and immediately set off with no real notion of where she was going. All she knew was that she had to get as far away as possible, as soon as possible.
Jo Portman whistled as the detached house in the leafy suburb came into view. Set back from its neighbours, it was ringed by a wrought iron security fence that ran the perimeter of the emerald lawns. A sprinkler system sent up a dizzying fountain of sparkling water, that nourished the rose bushes and beds of hydrangeas that bordered the driveway and footpath to the large, whitewashed home of Frankie and Deborah Morris.
She parked her "borrowed" Interflora van on the pavement of the cul-de-sac, and pressed the buzzer on the intercom system. Peering through the bars of the gate, she looked for signs of life within the house itself. The woman may have a job of her own to go to, or could be out doing whatever Gangster's wives did on their endless afternoons. But before too long, a voice finally crackled over the intercom system.
"Hello? Who's there?"
Jo adjusted the cap of her new uniform, and smiled brightly. "Mrs Morris, my name's Katie, and I'm from Interflora. We have an anonymous delivery for you."
Silence, at first. But then: "Oh! My! Hang on there, Katie, I'll be out in a minute."
It was a nice move on Harry's front. People were always more inclined to talk when something unexpectedly nice had occurred. But their meeting was destined to be a short one, so she used the time she had before Deborah appeared to let down one of her tyres. She would fix that, and keep Mrs Morris talking while she did so. When she straightened up again, she saw Mrs Morris hurrying down the driveway dressed in a fitted track-suit. A thrill of excitement coursed through her as she prepared to make a new friend. Then, however, her phone chimed into life, making her curse under her breath.
She ignored the phone, and beamed at Mrs Morris. "From the husband, are they? Must be the romantic type!" It was lame, but it was a start.
Ros peered sceptically out of the window of their new van, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Lucas had parked in a little side street used by the locals as a convenient tipping ground for unwanted furniture. The skeletons of bedframes, old door-less wardrobes with the hangers still clinging to the rail, and busted chests of draws were dumped hither and thither, blocking the access to most of the businesses nearby. There were the bins which had clearly become firm favourites of the local urban foxes. Refuse had been dragged out and scattered up the sides of the alleyway, leaving a trail of wreckage and a stench that hung heavy in the air. Reluctantly, Ros stepped out of the van, cautiously placing one delicate heel on to the grimy cobbles while clutching her clipboard and swatches close to her chest.
Lucas followed suit, admiring the contrast between Ros and her surroundings. She wore a tailored suit; crisp, cream coloured blouse beneath the snug fitted jacket. Not a hair out of place, nor a hem out of line. He had to suppress a snigger.
She caught him looking. "This isn't funny, Bob!"
He grinned as he moved towards the rear of the van to get his toolkit – the one with more than just hammer and nails in it. "Come on," he goaded her, "where's your sense of humour? Oh.. I forgot…" he left the rest of his riposte hanging as she shot him a look that oozed contempt.
Together, they made their way round the front, to where Darren O'Casey's old nightclub still stood. A dark neon sign hanging above the entrance informed the world that it was "The Ruby Bar". The door was open, and inside they found cleaning staff leaning on mops, or sat on high stools that lined the length of the bar. It was all chrome and reflective surfaces inside. They paused on the threshold, overlooking the dance floor, where an empty DJ box was set against the far wall. Lucas noted that the floor was still sticky with spilled drinks from God knows when. Obviously, no one was checking the staff too closely.
Ros arranged her face into a smile as she addressed the nearest member of staff.
"Hi, I'm Laura and this is my repairman, Danny," she explained. "We've been sent by the company to take a look around, make sure everything's all right before Mr Morris takes over the running of the bar." Beside her, Lucas raised a hand in general greeting and hoisted his toolbox a little higher so they could see it.
The name "Mr Morris" seemed to have a transformative effect on the hitherto lazing workers.
"Oh, right, Frankie's not here at the minute," the man nearest to them said. "But you can go in anyway. We'll be here till opening time. Is there anything you need?"
Ros and Lucas glanced at one another. "We'll be fine, thanks," Lucas replied. "But, can you show us to Morris's office? We need to check a few things before he moves in."
They followed the man towards the back of the club, and through a set of sound-proofed double doors. They came to an iron stairwell with the cellar lower down in the basement, and the first floor above them. They went up, shivering against the draughts of the cellar where the draymen lowered the kegs of ale and beer. On the first floor, there was a snooker room, stating it was for private members only. Lucas nodded towards it, a subtle gesture that they should definitely give that area their attentions.
Finally, they made it to the second floor, where the Office was located well above the noise and vibrations from the nightclub itself.
"That'll be all, thanks," Ros said to their escort after seeing him loitering by the doorway.
They paused, breath held until his footsteps had clattered down the stairwell outside, and turned their attentions to the computer on the desk. It was only on standby, and Lucas was able to wipe the footage from the security cameras with ease, just in case anyone decided to check who was there, and then disabled the system to boot. After a few seconds, they were free to get to work.
"Bug the phone, quick," said Ros, pointing to the phone on the desk, as though Lucas had quite forgotten what one was. "Oh, and make sure you get a listening device in here, and here, and here. We need the whole room covered."
Lucas wasted no time, and everything he needed had been packed into his toolkit by Malcolm.
"Surveillance cameras?" he asked. "Behind the light bulbs?"
Ros looked up at the overhead strip lights and nodded, even though the glare would be bad. "Another in the window frame," she said, pointing them out. "And give me your hammer."
Lucas look up, eyebrow raised.
"To make it sound like we're actually doing something in here!"
He handed it over, wincing as Ros added to their authenticity with the tools. They completed their work as quickly as they could, covering their backs with talk of colour schemes and fabrics, just on the off-chance that someone was listening. They did the same to the private members club on the first floor. Phones tapped, secret, microscopically small surveillance cameras fitted to various fixtures about the rooms. One behind the optics display gave a particularly good view of the room.
However, Lucas' phone rang just as Ros was busy fitting a listening device to another phone in the snooker room.
"Lucas North," he answered brusquely, and snapping the toolbox shut.
Ruth sounded breathless on the other end. "Lucas, we have an incident," he wheezed. "Clara Walsh has made a run for it from her safe house and we've lost her. I can't get hold of Jo anywhere, and Harry's in with the Home Secretary-"
"Wait! Wait!" he cut over her, suddenly in a froth. "Slow down, Ruth. Is there any indication of where Clara's got to?"
A pause, and then: "Well, there was a note. She's gone to the Police because she thinks MI5 set up this guy they arrested this afternoon."
Lucas's heart sank to his boots. "Shit!" he cursed. They hadn't even been made aware of any arrests, something that struck him his highly dubious. "Ruth, we're on our way now."
Ros had overheard him from where she was still putting the finishing touches to her phone tap. When she stepped back into the room, however, her expression was resigned. "Shit hit the fan?" she asked, sounding as though she didn't really want the answer. Lucas flashed her a smile, hoping it might take some of the sting out of the tail.
"We have to get back to the Grid, now."
It was late afternoon by the time Clara reached Scotland Yard. She was sweating, breathless and exhausted. It had taken two cab rides, a tube journey and a bus to get her safely to the Station. She approached the reception desk and pulled the slip of paper from the back pocket of her jeans.
"I need to speak to someone about the murder of Darren O'Casey," she informed the woman on the desk. "I was here the other day, I found the body. Now, I really need to speak to Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer."
The woman on the desk tapped away at a computer hidden from view. But she waited patiently as the woman checked over the information she needed. "Miss Walsh, is it?" she asked.
"That's right," Clara confirmed. "He'll remember me from before. Please, tell him it's urgent."
The Officer on reception nodded towards the plastic seats, and Clara disappeared into the crowds who were already waiting. Babies wailed, and mothers struggled with prams and buggies as drunks stumbled through the Formica wilderness of the waiting room. It was to her relief, then, that she was called in after just five minutes. She quickly glanced at the hordes of people who'd been waiting far longer than she had, and felt guilty over the angry looks now drawn her way. She shrugged, and walked towards the Chief Superintendent.
"Thanks for seeing me," she said, relief finally stealing over her as he led her to his rather plush office. "It's urgent you see, because I think MI5 have set up that man you arrested. I know it sounds like a right tall story, but I swear it's true."
He took a seat behind a large mahogany desk lined with pictures of his children, smiles frozen in place as they looked out of the glass at him. "Really, Miss Walsh, are you sure you heard right?" asked Tom Mortimer, suddenly rather interested.
Clara nodded. "I swear, when I was taken from here they brought me to a place called Thames House and I had to sign the Official Secrets Act," she explained, words tripping over themselves as she rushed get her story out in one breath. "They asked me all these questions, and today they fitted up some kid from Russia – or something like that. But it's what they do, isn't it? They frame people, so they framed this kid and now they're probably going to frame me!" She was growing desperate. The only thing that kept her on the right side of reason was that the Chief Superintendent hadn't dismissed her out of hand.
Chief Superintendent Mortimer leaned across the desk and smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Miss Walsh. You're safe with me," he said, getting to his feet. "But give me five minutes while I just make a quick phone call."
Clara noted the phone on the Chief Superintendent's desk, but he did not use it. He left the room altogether, and she watched him leave with a deep frown furrowing her dark brow. She was doing the numbers in her head again, and things were failing to add up.
The Chief Superintendent lifted the receiver and dialled the numbers in quick succession. As soon as the call was answered, he asked to be put through to Charlie Weir. He drummed his fingers in agitation as he waited to be answered again. He sighed as he thought of having to break this unfortunate news to Frankie Morris, too.
"Tom," Charlie's voice was calm on the other end.
"Charlie, we have a problem," he said. "Our boy is still in custody, and I can still make the charges stick. But, we have MI-fucking-5 sniffing around."
"Oh, shit!" Weir didn't sound quite so calm any more. "How did you find out?"
"Our witness came back of her own free will and spilled the beans. She reckons it was the Spooks who fitted up that cleaning kid of yours."
There was another pause as the information was assessed. "Good, now bloody well keep her there and bring her with you tomorrow. Usual place; tell Frankie."
There was a click on the other end of the line followed by a buzz as the line went dead. Mortimer cradled the phone for a second before replacing it. Things, he decided, were getting complicated and he deserved a pay rise.