Collusion: Chapter 12
Checking out the Ukraine connection at the Bandera shrine in north London turns ugly
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: What started as an investigation into right-wing football lads has taken a journalist to places he could not have imagined. Back in the UK, surveillance at a secret museum does not go as planned
Chapter 12: Going Underground
Just six days had passed since Ashton parted company with Orlanda but it seemed much longer. She was installed in a different, bigger flat in Dolphin Square with a discreet police officer who had experience protecting the royal family. “She was telling me that Princess Anne had an apartment here,” the MP said. “I thought that was very interesting. I can’t imagine any other member of the royal family living outside their bubble. It makes me respect her even more.”
Small talk was not on Ashton’s agenda. Especially about the monarchy. “What was your week like? Any more threats? Has life in Parliament been any easier?”
She sighed. “There are more meaningless meaningful votes on the horizon. The divide is getting wider by the day. You know those English values that are so prized? Civility, decency, respect, reticence and politeness? Well, they have ceased to exist among the people who place those stereotypes at the centre of their identity. The bullying and intolerance are mindboggling – and that’s in the House. We set the tone for the country.”
Orlanda’s certainties had been undermined. Ashton’s, too. The couple were equally lost in a world that was becoming unrecognisable.
Food and drink were brought to them from the on-site restaurant. “I’ve no beer for you, I’m afraid,” she said, looking authentically disappointed. “Next time…”
Ashton could not help himself. He was falling for this woman. “Tell me about your week,” she said. “I’ll bet it was more exciting than mine. Tell me about the Alhambra.”
He snapped, unconsciously. “I wasn’t on holiday!” Orlanda was visibly taken aback.
“Sorry, sorry… some awful things happened. I found out about stuff that I could not imagine – and saw some of it first-hand. One day I will tell you all about it. Not now. Please, not now. I need something to take my mind off it.”
Orlanda sat down next to him and held his hand. “When you need to talk, I’ll be here. We don’t have to speak about it now. When you’re ready.”
”Oh, Orlanda,” he said, and began to cry. She hugged him. “The only good thing about this whole mess is meeting you,” he said, sobbing. She squeezed him again and let his wave of emotion subside in silence, allowing the physicality to speak for itself. Eventually, he composed himself. “And you’re a Tory, too.” She laughed, recognising his dreadful attempt at humour was a compliment of the highest quality.
“I won’t let it ruin everything,” he said, regaining equilibrium. “One day I will take you to the Alhambra. It’s extraordinary. Granada is, too, and I’ve barely seen anything of it.”
He talked about the Nasrid palaces and the breathtaking brilliance of the Moorish artisans. Orlanda was impressed by the enthusiasm in his eyes.
The food arrived and Ashton was keen to hear about Orlanda’s life. She amused – and shocked him – with tales of her university days at Oxford. His time in higher education bore no resemblance to her experiences. She had attended one of the oldest colleges in the city and lived in accommodation that had been previously occupied by at least two household names. The stories of inappropriate tutors – he could imagine that – feasts in the medieval Great Hall and weird traditions made him laugh.
He was surprised how incestuous life at Oxford was. “You do most things in your individual college,” she said. “You rarely mix with people from other colleges. I was a member of the Union, of course, but I’d say 90 per cent of the time was spent within my own college.”
Ashton was surprised. He had imagined Oxbridge as a communal experience for the privileged where they plotted their path to dominance.
“No,” she laughed. “It’s much more British than that. It’s stupid and disorganised. Sometimes I think outsiders apportion too much significance to the place. That mystique is even more important than the social connections you make there. Although there’s a sort of Masonic recognition from people you’ve never met that works in your favour.”
Deep down, Ashton knew he should have hated her. Less than two months ago he did. Now he was in love with a Conservative MP. When she suggested he stay the night he acquiesced. “No pressure,” she said, chiding him gently. “I can’t imagine the damage that’s occurred downstairs.”
His mind flashed back to Titch’s villa. “No,” he said. “You can’t. But if there’s anyone who can help cure the problem, it’s you. It really is. Thank you.”
And with that they went to bed.
*
Titch half expected the text telling him he would have the mews to himself that night. He had planned to share a bottle of Lambickx Private Domain with Ashton. It was a blended kriek produced for an American importer and he opened it anyway and savoured the flavour while listening to Morente’s Lorca album. He smiled when Gacela del Amor Imprevisto came on. Unexpected love, indeed. Yet the final line shook any romanticism out of him: “Your mouth already lightless, marking my death.” It brought him back to the problems they were facing.
The Bandera museum was a long shot. With dead ends everywhere, it at least gave them the opportunity to be proactive.
Judging that Orlanda would be an early riser, Titch messaged Ashton at 7.30am. “Meet you outside the front entrance to the Square in an hour,” it said. When Ashton emerged, Titch was at the wheel of a black cab. “In the back,” he said.
They drove in a very circuitous route to Islington. “I don’t think we are being followed but we need to make sure,” Titch said, proceeding confidently down numerous small streets. Ashton was impressed. “I’ve done the Knowledge,” Titch explained. “For fun more than anything.” He was full of surprises.
The Knowledge is a series of tests that London black cab drivers have to pass to earn their badge. It takes most candidates three or four years to complete and involves learning routes across more than 25,000 streets around central London. Only an expert in the capital’s terrain could have kept track of the taxi.
“My cabbie friends always tell me that passing the Knowledge is harder than earning a degree,” Titch said. “They might have a point. Even one from an Oxbridge college.”
The passenger winced and changed the subject. “Whose cab is it?” Ashton asked.
“Cathy’s. We have a shared history. She’s joining us on our little adventure. We worked together in various troublespots.”
“Who was she working for?
“The Det.” Yet again Ashton was surprised.
“Yes,” Titch explained. “We were the first unit to accept women into special forces. She’s very, very good. Better, maybe, that me.”
On the seat next to Ashton were some clothes and a peaked cap. He picked up the hat. “What’s this? Fancy dress?”
“Put it on,” Titch said. “Today you’re a traffic warden.” There was a hand-held machine for giving out tickets, too.
“You’re joking,” Ashton said.
“No. Never. It may be a little bit big for you but that won’t matter. It will give you a couple of hours to walk about unnoticed. I’ll drive around looking for fares and then Cathy will take over in the cab. She’s got something to attend to until late morning. When she arrives, she’ll pick you up and you can discard the uniform and go home. I just need an extra pair of eyes. It’s a difficult place to watch and we haven’t got the time or resources to set up a proper OP.
“OP?”
“Observation post.”
“If you’re in normal clothes,” Titch continued, “you’ll get noticed because you have no training. The uniform gives you an element of camouflage. You’ll still stand out like a sore thumb but you’ll have to do this morning.”
Their destination was a road between Upper Street and Liverpool Road and Titch drove past the doorway they were interested in before dropping Ashton off about 400 yards away around a corner.
“You walk about,” he said. “Up and down the street, round the block. Don’t worry when you lose sight of the doorway. I’ll be close, either on foot or driving around.
“Keep a note of anyone suspicious who goes in or out. You know the rough-looking former military sorts we’re looking for. Call me if you see anyone. There should be plenty of movement. It’s a block of residential flats. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. You’ll be fine.”
Ashton wasn’t fine but he had no choice. He watched Titch spin the cab and turn into Liverpool Road. There were four cars close to the doorway and Ashton dawdled around them, trying not to show how terrified he was of running into a real traffic warden. After 10 minutes he began to feel bolder and crossed the main road and stood on the opposite corner, pretending to fiddle with the ticket machine. Four women left the building at different times.
His phone rang. “Walk down Barnsbury Street, for God’s sake,” Titch said. “Don’t linger outside the bloody doorway. You don’t have to be there all the time.”
A black cab shot past him and he caught a quick glimpse of Titch’s scowl. In response he strode with purpose away from the museum.
He did four laps of the area and nothing seemed unusual. Finally, Titch picked him up. “Cathy’s on her way. Out of uniform. Quick!” he said. “You’re too obvious, even in disguise. Give it five minutes and do one more pass and then you can leave.”
He dropped Ashton off in Milner Square, an unorthodox Georgian quadrangle round the corner from the museum. “I always find this Square disturbing,” Titch said as he bade farewell. “It feels like it prefigures Nazi architecture. Nairn’s London, a book you are no doubt familiar with, says of this square: ‘It is as near to expressing evil as a design can be.’”
He drove off without waiting for a response, leaving Ashton even more unnerved. He had no idea what Titch was talking about but he could see what he meant: the monumental uniformity evoked fascist grandeur. Even buildings were scaring the journalist now.
He scuttled back towards the museum. As he approached the street, he spotted a man striding towards Liverpool Road who seemed to have the gait and physique of a serviceman. He rang Titch immediately. “Fella passed me who could be a soldier. Tough looking. Has the hair, the walk and the body. Check him out.”
“Has he seen you?”
“No.”
“Stay where you are.”
Disturbed, Ashton circled Milner Square gardens. A minute later his phone rang. “You’re learning fast,” Titch said. “He went into the building. OK. You can head back to Pimlico. Go to the mews. I’ll see you later.”
Ashton was glad to be out of it. He strode towards Upper Street and the tube. Not far past Islington Town Hall he received another call. “We’ve hit the jackpot,” Titch said. “Your man has just come out. He’s with the Finn. And Killer.” Ashton stopped dead.
“Cathy’s got them on camera. Stay where you are. They’re talking. They’ve split up. They’re moving. OK, the one you saw walking up is coming back your way. Pick him up when he gets to Upper Street. We’ll see what the other two do and will be in contact asap. I don’t think they know we’re here.”
With his mind reeling, Ashton crossed the road and positioned himself on the corner of Richmond Grove. He waited, shaking.
*
The Finn went north up Liverpool Road. Cathy passed him in the taxi, found a parking bay just at the edge of where he was visible and watched him stroll towards her. There was nothing to suggest that he believed he was being watched.
That was until he turned into a private road that allowed entry into an estate of six blocks of Edwardian flats that ran at right angles to the street. She leapt out of the cab and jogged back towards the point where he had entered the complex. There was no sign of him. She went to the far end of the buildings where there was a community centre and an exit that led to Laycock Green. He could have doubled back to the main road via any of the walkways between blocks, crossed into the small park or turned right towards Highbury Corner. There were too many options to realistically narrow them down.
Cathy cursed. Normally surveillance like this was conducted with three teams. It was not a one-person job. After looking around for a few moments, she texted Titch. She wondered how he was getting on.
*
Killer dawdled down towards the Angel without a care in the world. He stopped at a small café and bought a bacon sandwich to take away. When he left the snack in its bag, Titch wondered whether he was staying nearby and they had been lucky with the surveillance. Then the Geordie crossed the road and turned left into Gibson Square. There were benches in the gardens and Titch assumed that Killer was heading there to find a seat and eat the snack.
Titch followed, but at a distance. By the time he tentatively popped his head around the corner and looked into the square, he realised that the chase was over. He could hear the roar of a motorcycle starting up and could see Killer pulling out into the roadway at the opposite end of the gardens. The same notion crossed his mind that had occurred to Cathy. It took nine people to successfully trail each individual target. His next thought was Ashton.
*
The man turned towards Highbury and Islington underground station. The pavements were crowded enough that Ashton could keep relatively close without alerting his quarry. It became clear quickly that Titch was right. There was no sense of a pursuit. The whole exercise felt pointless.
On the approach to the tube station, the man stopped and looked around. For the first time he appeared interested in his surroundings. That made Ashton apprehensive but he felt better when his target looked at his watch, glanced at the Famous Cock pub and decided to go inside for a drink. After waiting a couple of minutes and calling Titch to inform him of the latest development – it went straight to answerphone – Ashton went inside the pub and positioned himself at the bar at the opposite end of the room. The cask and keg selection were not to his taste so he ordered a Yeastie Boys’ Bigmouth in a can. He texted Titch, who replied: “Keep me informed. Cathy coming your way.”
Ashton’s relief was cut short when the man got up quickly, downed the remnants of his pint and rushed into the station. There was no other option but to follow. Ashton had to move fast: his target was probably watching live departures on an app and was planning to take an overground train that was due very soon. Without informing Titch where he was going, he dinged his Oyster card at the barrier and rushed inside, worrying that his quarry had already disappeared into the crowd.
The opposite was true. The man was standing staring at the gates. Ashton was already through when he realised. It was too late. They made eye contact. The stranger grinned.
There seemed only one thing to do. Without, he hoped, a flicker of recognition, Ashton strode towards the Victoria Line. He took a place on the escalator and stood still on the journey down. He did not look back. His mind was racing. Someone came barging down the moving stairs and clipped Ashton’s elbow, jolting him hard. The rushing commuter cursed as he passed. A steady stream of people poured down the escalator, penning him in.
The realisation hit him that he had made a bad decision. There was no reception on the Victoria Line. He should have taken the overground to Stratford. He could have called Titch on his way and alerted him to the situation. There was intermittent wifi underground but it was not trustworthy. He was on his own. The best-case scenario was that he was mistaken and paranoid. Experience had taught him this was unlikely.
As he got off the escalator, the voice over the public address system said, “There are minor delays on the Victoria Line because of an earlier points failure at Brixton.” Ashton cursed. The train would be packed. He avoided taking the tube during busy periods because of a slight feeling of claustrophobia. His fear of tight spaces had grown worse after the waterboarding incident and this was his first time on the underground since he was brutalised. He had been slightly panicky on the plane to Spain and now agitation was building. It was the lesser evil. A look over his shoulder told him the man he feared was about to come off the escalator.
He rushed as quickly as he could to the platform. The next train was three minutes away and a tightly-packed throng was waiting for it. The entrance to the platform was at the south side of the station and was always more crowded so Ashton wormed his way through to the north end. Halfway down, he looked back but could not see anyone he recognised.
It was still unreasonably busy at the far end. When he glanced southwards, Ashton imagined he saw the man making slow headway towards him. He could not be sure. A thought occurred to him. The overground platform that was parallel to the Victoria Line was almost certainly empty. He could move very quickly back towards the exit.
The feeling of relief when he slipped away from the crowd and into the short passageway between platforms was palpable. He was able to jog southward down the sparsely-occupied overground line. At the end, he stopped and tried to take stock. For a moment he considered going back up to the ticket hall but he could hear the sound of the Victoria Line train arriving. He glanced over his shoulder. The man must have had a similar thought. There he was, looking up from the other end of the overground platform.
Making an instant decision, Ashton charged towards the front carriage of the Victoria Line train. His rationale was simple. The pursuer had two choices: to either go back and board the rear carriage of the train or chase up the platform and take a bet that Ashton was trying to escape the station. Instinctively, Ash thought it best to stay in the most crowded area.
He powered his way into the carriage. It was packed. Travellers wriggled for space in the compartment, exuding frustrated passive aggression. The smell of body odour and fast food reeked in the tight confines. Someone coughed and another sneezed. He felt crushed. When the train began its journey, fellow passengers swayed with the motion of the rolling stock and pressed into him. It felt like his breath was being squeezed out of his chest. He tried to focus. What had the man done? Had he got on the train? Or had he gambled with the exit?
King’s Cross was the next stop three minutes away. It did not give him long to think. There was no wifi available.
When the train stopped, Ashton waited until passengers got on and off and then peeked out back down the carriages just as the beeps began to signal the doors were about to close. There, looking back at him, was the face he did not want to see. There were eight carriages. The two men were at opposite ends of the train.
Euston was less than a minute away. He thought of getting off and trying to lose his tail but it was hard to imagine any escape routes. Too many people would be on the escalators, even if he could outrun his pursuer. On the plus side, would this character make a move in such a crowded area under the glare of CCTV cameras? It was a chance he was not prepared to take. There was a bounty on his head.
Even more passengers got onto the train at Euston. That was a bonus in one way. Normally at this time of day you could exit the carriage and move forward three compartments at each stop. The mass of people on the platform would slow the man down if he tried to work his way forward. Still, every station would push the danger level up a notch.
The building claustrophobia was driving Ashton towards a panic attack. It would get worse. Warren Street, the next stop, did not offer many options. His best chance would come at Oxford Circus. He popped his head out as the pips warned that the door was closing. The man was rejoining the train just three carriages away. He would have to make his move at Oxford Circus, the next stop.
Ashton was familiar with the layout of the station and had the advantage of being in the front carriage. The interchange with the Central and Bakerloo lines was yards away from the nose of the train. If he could get any sort of lead, there were options. He could go down the stairs to the Central line or round a curve to the Bakerloo. A lot would depend on the footfall in the station. Ashton was banking on there being plenty of people attempting to board the cars because of the delays.
From the moment they entered Oxford Circus Ashton saw with relief that the platform was packed. He glanced back down the aisle and he could see for sure now. The man was closing in on the interconnecting doors between carriages. In a matter of moments he would be in the same compartment. The train seemed to take an age to stop and the doors creaked open. Without looking where his pursuer was, Ashton slithered out on to the platform and ploughed his way towards the exit. A number of people lashed out lamely as he passed, making antagonistic contact but not at a level that would provoke a confrontation. Once clear of the crowds, he sprinted around the curved corridor and, with only the merest pause, decided against going down the stairs towards the Central Line. There were too many commuters coming up.
Weaving through traffic, Ashton emerged on the Bakerloo platform. The next train was due in four minutes. That was too long. He figured that he had maybe 20 seconds before the man worked out where he had gone. It was too much to hope that his antagonist had headed downstairs.
He sprinted north down the platform. There was a connecting corridor that took him back to the Victoria line just yards away, with the option of a staircase that led upstairs to the exit. The man chasing him would have to waste a fraction of a second assessing which way Ashton had gone. If he could get there unseen it would create a new range of possibilities. As he turned into the passage, he glanced backwards. The pursuit was still on.
He kept going towards the Victoria Line again. A train was on the platform. Ashton charged flat out to board it. He was about five yards away when the beeping warned that the automatic doors were about to close. He threw himself at the entrance to the carriage and got inside. The door gave him a hefty whack on the shoulder and knocked him into a stumble, causing him to scatter half a dozen occupants. But he was inside and the train was about to leave.
A young man that Ashton barged hit the inside of the door hard. The impact triggered the safety system and the doors slid open again. Someone tutted and a gruff London voice said “fucking idiot.” More people tried to board the train. Ashton felt faint. No one made eye contact. As the electronic pips began to sound again, the man came around the corner. Like Ashton, he flung himself towards the carriage as the doors slid together. He was a quarter of a second too late but managed to get his fingertips between the rubber buffers. Frozen by terror, Ashton looked around wildly. As the man strained to create an opening, a woman eased her way through the mass of passengers and slammed the side of her fist onto the intruding digits. The man shouted in pain and withdrew his hand. For a heartstopping moment Ashton wondered whether the doors would open again. An annoyed voice came over the internal public address system. “Will passengers please not lean on doors. You are causing delays to the service.” On the platform another announcement said, “this train is ready to depart. Will passengers please step behind the yellow line. There will be another service along in one minute.”
They moved. The woman had gone. The one minute between trains was all he needed. That gave him time to get off at Green Park and melt into the crowds on Piccadilly. His heart was racing and he needed to calm down. He considered walking home but that seemed like a bad idea. Instead, he went to the London Beer House in Royal Opera Mews. Relatively few people seemed to know about the place. It was, as he hoped, quiet. He ordered two pints of Mondo’s Little Victories and downed the first while the second was being poured. Then he sat down and called Titch.
The voice at the other end of the line was tetchy. “Where have you been? Are you OK.”
“No,” Ashton said. “I am not fucking OK. He knew I was following him. He chased me. I escaped on the tube.”
Titch was silent for a disturbingly long time. When he spoke it was in a weary, perplexed tone. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you. We need to put an end to this.”
Chapter 13: Love and hate
My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a very different story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here