Collusion: Chapter 14

The spectre of Russia emerges as Titch takes a sober look at a potential traitor

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: What started off as an investigation into right-wing football lads has become something darker. As Brexit votes loom, terrorist targets begin to emerge

Chapter 14: The Demon Drink

“This is what will happen, dear boy,” Titch said. “Go and get drunk with Pierce and I will watch. He has never met me. As far as I can see no one has taken a photograph of us together. I would know, I think.”

Ashton was sceptical. “Then how did they recognise me in Islington?”

“There are pictures of you all over the internet. The vanity of byline photos has been your undoing. Pierce – or even Killer – could have easily had an associate google you or send them a link.”

Titch believed he could learn a lot. “Let me observe how he relates to you, who he talks to and his general demeanour,” he said. “You need to pretend I am not there. I will stay out of sight as much as possible, anyway.”

Ashton met Pierce in the Counting House on Cornhill. It was a big, ornate Fuller’s pub that had once been a bank. There was a balcony overlooking the bar from where the managers had once scrutinised the tellers. The room was large and crowded. When Ashton arrived at 4pm, Pierce was already holding court with a number of City bigwigs. He had been drinking for some time, to judge by his behaviour.

The group were discussing football when Ashton arrived and he joined in with enough conviction not to disturb the mood. The pub was beginning to fill up and the noise got louder. Pierce was ordering pints and shorts for the company and pouring his own drinks from a bottle of red wine that no one else was sharing. Distracted, Ashton looked for Titch. He could not see him.

Pierce whispered in his ear. “I’m not going to let anyone fuck with you, mate. Anyone messes with you, they deal with me. I’m a London boy. We don’t let our friends down. You Scousers wouldn’t understand that, but that’s the way we are. My old man always said…”

This was Pierce at his worst. If Ashton did not know Titch was watching, he would have made an excuse and left. He switched off. A well-spoken man in a suit eased him away and asked: “Are we going to win the league?” They talked about Liverpool Football Club until the man said: “I get plenty of stick for being a Scouser.” Like many out-of-town supporters he had broadened the term to include all fans of the team. Ashton bridled a little but let him continue. “I love the club. But you know what I hate?”

“No.”

“Liverpool,” the southerner continued. “The place. I hate going there. The streets around Anfield scare me. Especially at night games. The people are dirty and angry. It would be much more enjoyable if the club were based somewhere nice.”

Six weeks earlier Ashton would have exploded. Now he just spoke sadly. “I’m Scouse,” he said. “I’m from Liverpool 3. I’m proud of my city and the club that represents it. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with another team.”

The man just laughed. “No, I’m a red for life. You have to admit it, Merseyside isn’t very nice. And the politics…”

Ashton disengaged and went to the toilet. He locked himself in the cubicle and tried to remain calm. His phone dinged to indicate a text. It was from Titch. “Do not erupt. Do not leave. This is interesting.”

Back at the bar Ashton spoke to six or seven of the company. Pierce very rarely stayed in one spot, or one conversation, for more than a few minutes. That was his habit. He would collar adjacent strangers and chat away. His phone rang constantly, and he often disappeared outside to take a call or have a smoke, re-emerging with a new, temporary friend and a fresh bottle of red wine in hand.

This went on until about 8pm. Ashton did not drink much. He was not the greatest fan of Fuller’s beers. He enjoyed his first London Pride but did not fancy a second. The same was true of the ESB. The ales had a thumbprint that did not appeal to him, although he could see they were quality drinks. Titch frequently said, “there are few beers better than a well-kept Pride,” but it was simply not to Ashton’s taste. Neither was the conversation.

He decided to leave. Pierce wanted him to stay. “We’ll go somewhere quieter and talk,” he said but could not persuade Ashton to remain. At the door Pierce whispered in his ear. “Don’t trust the fat man,” he slurred. “It’s hard to find any information about him. But you tell him from me that he’s not as invisible as he likes to think he is. You tell him from me.”

Just before the entrance to Bank tube station Ashton’s phone rang. It was Titch. “It’s been an illuminating evening, dear boy. Why don’t we meet at the Rake near Borough Market? Walk over the bridge. That way I can check whether you’re being followed. I’ll get to the pub about 15 minutes after you do. I want to make sure it’s safe. I could see you’ve had a dull time but for me it’s been fascinating.”

*

“In the parlance of American movies, he ‘made’ me,” Titch said, slurping a Kernel Brown ale. “His tradecraft is excellent. He could not be sure but he changed his behaviour about 90 minutes after I arrived. I don’t think it was coincidence.”

“He told me to tell you that you’re not as invisible as you like to think you are,” Ashton said. “He knew you were there.”

“I suppose he might have come into the pub in Pimlico one night and recognised me from that but I don’t think that’s what happened. He could have made a wild guess because of my size but there were other, er, large people in the Counting House. No. He deliberately caught my eye. Just for an instant. He is constantly on alert.”

“And how did he change his behaviour?”

Titch sat back on the high stool he occupied, leaning against the wall behind him. “He started drinking,” he said.

Ashton laughed out loud. “He drinks for breakfast!”

“No he doesn’t. My guess is that he is very rarely drunk. Almost never.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. You notice he’s forever going to the bar or to talk to people? He leaves his full glass somewhere and returns with an empty one. When outside for a smoke, he does the same. He knocks over more glasses than anyone I’ve ever seen. For an hour and a half he flitted around the pub and barely drank half a glass of wine despite buying and emptying two bottles. He smoked seven cigarettes – five outside the front door, two around the back. Each time he left a full glass behind when he came back inside.

“Everyone around him is getting drunk so no one notices, particularly as he seems to be the most intoxicated member of the group. If someone notices he has left his drink behind, they put it down to drunkenness. He’s completely sober most of the time.”

“I’ve always wondered how he gets up the next morning,” Ashton said sourly.

“In his line of business he can only afford to let his guard down when he’s completely safe. Anyway, he started drinking what was in his glass after we made eye contact. I’ve no doubt that he’ll continue until he decides I’ve gone.

“My instinct is that he is a high-class operative. Top-quality training backed up by years of honing his skills. Now, let’s see if he makes Cathy. If he does, he’s really, really good.”

“Cathy?”

“Oh yes,” Titch said. “She’s still there – or wherever he goes.”

“Let’s rewind,” Ashton said, his brain reeling. “You said ‘his line of business.’ What do you mean?”

“I can only assume he’s an enemy asset. I cannot see what value he would have to British intelligence. He could be keeping an eye on dubious activity in the City but that would seem to be a waste of talent and certainly below his status. There’s another question that has always bothered me.”

“What?”

“With his record of donorship and political connections, why has he never shown up on the Honours List? I’d expect him to be in the Lords with his pedigree. Maybe something is red-flagging him.”

“I thought it was the alcoholism.”

Titch smiled. “Yes, there are no drunks in the Lords. That never stopped anyone.”

Ashton was flabbergasted. “What are you saying?”

“I think he’s working for the Russians. I think he’s involved in laundering dark money from Moscow. I think the funding for Brexit and scores of destabilising right-wing organisations is coming from the Kremlin and your friend Pierce is a master at getting the cash to its destinations under the radar. And I think he’ll have anyone who endangers that operation taken out of the equation. After tonight, I’m very scared.”

Titch downed the dregs of his pint while this statement sunk in. Then he spoke again. “This Brown Ale is really very good, dear boy. You should have one. It’s magnificent.” He nodded eagerly.

“Christ, after what you just told me, you’re thinking about Brown Ale?”

“Of course, Ash, of course. Did you expect me to cry and hide? No, I’m going to have a nice beer and consider how best to stop the fucker. This is no time to cower in fear. No one should be ashamed of being frightened. The trick is not to show it. Fix bayonets, young man. Fix bayonets.”

*

Pierce phoned early the next morning, as usual. “You weren’t yourself last night,” he said.

“I haven’t been myself since all this started,” Ashton said, irritated after hours of disturbed sleep.

“As you’d expect, I have contacts who are, er, familiar with some of these more extreme groups. I think I will be able to call off the dogs, if indeed they are your problem. I’d like you to keep me informed about any discussions you have with this Titch person. I don’t know who he’s working for but it’s not our side. Keep any dealings with him to the minimum and let me know what he says. Oh, and give me his address so I can have him checked out again.”

“I’ll text you it,” Ashton said to buy time.

Pierce sounded sceptical. “Mmmm. The street. Just tell me the street.” Ashton told him. “You keep me informed, you got that? It’s important you understand this. It’s the only way I can guarantee your safety.”

The threat was explicit. It was the moment Ashton decided to trust Titch completely. He rushed around to the mews.

“Good, good,” Titch said. “I’m the bait, not you. Excellent.”

But something was bothering Ashton. “This started off as the Football Lads Action Group. Now we’ve got Russians. How the hell did we make the leap? It doesn’t make sense.”

“The connector is Ukraine,” Titch said. “It links to many things. I’m going up to north London again today to see if I can glean anything more.”

It was time for Ashton to come clean. “When I went to Pierce’s office, the guy who chased me on the tube was there,” he said.

“I know,” Titch said casually.

“How?”

“Cathy’s been following you since I told you I’d get you protection. She kept your attacker off the train. She watched Pierce’s place after you left and tailed the man to a house in Belgravia. He’s got GRU written all over him.”

“Russian military intelligence? The same people who committed the Salisbury poisonings?” Ashton already knew he was out of his depth. But this was significantly worse than he thought.

“It looks more like it every minute that passes,” Titch said. “Anyway, you have a day off. Try and be normal. Go see Orlanda tonight.”

The MP texted first. “I need to talk to you,” the message said. “9pm?”

He arrived on time. “How was your day?” he said after they kissed.

“I think I saw the man with the scar,” she said. “This morning.”

Ashton went cold. “Where?”

“Outside the Square. Talking to one of the security people. A nice young eastern European man. They didn’t even notice me. They were outside the entrance to the next house when I was picked up and we drove past them. They seemed relaxed.”

“We haven’t thought you were his target for a while,” Ashton said. “But surely they couldn’t be looking for me?”

“It didn’t seem they were looking for anyone.”

He rang Titch immediately. “It does not make sense,” the big man said. “None at all. Let me investigate.”

The couple were fixated on Killer for most of the evening. It led them to recall the night they escaped from the Square and, after she drank a couple of glasses of wine and he consumed three Orvals – Ashton insisted he bring his own beer to save Orlanda the trouble of buying any – they passed through fear and giggled about the events in the basement of the complex.

“Fear turns me on, to be fair,” he said, pulling her towards him on the couch. “Those few minutes in the room with the lockers were very erotic as well as terrifying. Holding you close… well, let’s just say it was heightened excitement.”

“I could tell,” she said. “We were very lucky that’s where my locker was. If it would have been closer to my flat there would have been nowhere to hide.” They were still in the temporary apartment that provided Orlanda with live-in security.

She sat up and pulled away. “What if neither you nor I are the target? What if it is the Square?”

Ashton was mildly annoyed at the broken intimacy but said, “Go on.”

“There are a considerable number of MPs here, plus members of the Lords, captains of industry, actors, pop stars …”

“Yes.”

“It’s the essence of the ‘metropolitan elite’ that these extremists keep talking about. And I’ve just remembered something else.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited. “On one of the IRA bombings – I’m not sure which, maybe Canary Wharf, maybe one of the 70s outrages – the gang left their van filled with explosives in the car park. One of the older residents told me about it.

“What if it’s not guns they were after but some sort of bomb,” she continued. “Or a number of them. You could easily hide them in the lockers. There’s a warren of rooms and corridors down there.”

Ashton pondered for a moment. “The BBC did call it ‘The UK’s most notorious address.’ The recognition factor is high across the entire country.”

He was right. Unproven allegations by a man who said he had been taken to the Square as a boy for paedophile parties had made national headlines just four years earlier. The claims did not have any substance but the complex’s racy past meant that many people were prepared to believe that abuse of children had occurred and was being covered up. The absurd Pizzagate conspiracy theory in the United States that linked politicians with child-sex rings underneath a fast-food restaurant was gaining more traction in the lead up to the 2020 election because it was being promoted on alt-right websites. QAnon believers lapped up the notion that US elected officials were part of a global organisation of cannibal perverts who gorged on young children.

FLAG and ExSat avoided publicly aligning themselves with these ideas but the Misanthropic Division had no qualms about spreading the misinformation. “The Square would make a hell of a target,” Orlanda said.

“You are a genius,” Ashton said. “I think you’ve just found the missing piece of the puzzle. But when?”

Orlanda stood up. “Brexit will reach a crisis point in the middle of the month. The political situation will be extremely unstable. If I was looking for something that might tip the entire system into anarchy, I might try to commit an outrage then.”

“I’ll talk to Titch tomorrow,” Ashton said. “I’m sure he’ll be able to get the place swept by security and get the sniffer dogs in.”

“Should I tell my protection?” Orlanda asked.

“You could,” he said. “But it’s just a theory. It may lead to them taking you less seriously if we’re wrong. Let’s see what Titch can do.”

Unnerved, they went to bed. It was not the satisfying night either of them had experienced.

*

The next morning Ashton was dropped off by Orlanda at the mews. He explained the MP’s hypothesis. “It should not be a problem to get a routine security check done,” Titch said. “Shall we go and have a look?”

Although he was uncertain, Ashton agreed. “And can you show me where Orlanda’s storage locker is? It would give us a good sense of place. If we do this now, we can call in a discreet sweep this afternoon.”

They walked to the Square and entered via the block that contained the MP’s residence. Ashton led his friend down the staircase that the couple had sneaked along to avoid Killer. That Sunday was less than two weeks earlier. It felt like months.

It was 8am and the basement passageway was beginning to come to life. There were offices with open doors. Workmen hurried in all directions and cleaning staff scurried about before heading upstairs to perform their duties.

This section, to the north east of the car park, seemed to be in constant daily use. Neither man spoke.

The south-east corridor had less footfall. There were, as Ashton had said, numerous sets of stairs, a handful of lifts, a number of rooms and offices which were all shut and the launderette where the journalist had assaulted the resident. Ashton had forgotten that part of the incident and suddenly began to panic that the man would emerge from around the corner or out of an elevator. He tried to hurry Titch along but the big man refused to be rushed. He was making a note of the CCTV cameras and was fascinated by the number of leaks and unkempt hanging wires. “There is no glamour in the belly of the beast,” he said. “This place looks like it needs to be knocked down and rebuilt. An explosion might do it good.” His companion was not amused.

On the south side they went straight to the locker room. Ashton punched in the four-digit code and they entered, closing the door behind them. The light bulb had been replaced.

There were 20 or so cubicles, most secured by off-the-shelf padlocks. Seven or eight of the lockers were open and empty. “I wonder how often the management check which are being used,” Titch said. “You could turn up with a lock and load stuff into them. And yes, you could, in theory, plant explosives throughout the complex and fill a van in the car park. I’m no expert on incendiaries but you could do a lot of damage.”

They reconnoitred the rest of the basement and then went back to the car park. “There are plenty of things you could do,” Titch said. “None of them good. Let’s get out of here and start the wheels in motion.”

They returned to the mews and Titch went to his office to make some calls. Things seemed to be moving fast but the day dragged for Ashton. About 4pm Titch got a message. A preliminary sweep had shown no trace of explosives. “There are limits to how effective dogs are,” he said. “In crowds with plenty of movement they can find it hard to pick up the scent. But this sort of situation is perfect – an empty basement where it’s warm and the smells are fairly constant. I’d have to conclude that there is no plot to blow up the Square.”

They had reached another dead end. “What is this all about?” Titch asked in frustration. “Something is going on. I wish I knew what.”

It was Friday. Parliament was in recess but Orlanda had business that kept her in London. She texted to say that she would be back in Pimlico by early evening and Ashton should come over at 7pm. At least he could look forward to a pleasant night.

• Chapter 15: Headline act

• My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a very different story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here