Collusion: Chapter 16

In the penultimate section, hopes for reconciliation are dashed and horror is on the horizon

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 14 15 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: What started off as an investigation into right-wing football lads has turned into an attempt to foil a terrorist attack

Chapter 16 Square Off

The couple had a text exchange on Sunday. Ashton started it.

“You OK?”

“No,” Orlanda replied. “How much did they pay you?”

He was confused. “Eh?”

“Barry told me how it works. Were you setting me up from the start?”

Ashton tried to control himself. He wanted to act rationally.

“Pierce set this up,” he typed. “All of it. He is working with the people who targeted you. He is probably also working for Russia. The danger is real.”

The response was dispiriting. “He said this morning you were a fantasist and he’s right. This conversation is over. Please do not contact me again.”

Although he expected to be blocked, he sent one last message. “The story was planted to cause both of us maximum distress. Pierce knows that I was at Hillsborough as a kid. That paper said Liverpool fans killed their fellow supporters, stole from dead bodies and urinated on police who were trying to save the dying. Those lies have caused me almost as much trauma over the years as what I saw that day. My father drank himself to death because he could not cope with what he’d seen. Pierce knew exactly what he was doing. He will do worse this week. Goodbye.” And he could not help himself. “And don’t drink the water.”

Titch came into the room moments after the last text had been sent, as if he was reading his friend’s mind. “I’m very concerned about what’s happening,” he said. “There appears to be some doubt about our credibility. This story in the newspaper has not helped. A lot of people – including those who have listened to us in the past month – seem to think you’ve used the situation to produce a kiss and tell and earn a paycheque. Your mate Pierce has muddied the waters. No pun intended.”

“So what’s our next move?”

“I’m just going to have to watch the Square. I need to find a way of getting on the roof to make sure no one tampers with the water tanks. It strikes me that you wouldn’t put anything in the supply during the day because a lot of residents would be out of their flats. The early hours of the morning are the optimum time. People wake up, have a shower, fill their kettle. Orlanda’s right…” Ashton winced at the name. “It’s not exact science because there are so many variables and it’s unpredictable, but it does look like a fraught week will end with an extension of Article 50 on Thursday. The Prime Minister signalled this last week. I’d bet the attempt to poison the Square is likely to take place before then. It won’t happen tonight because MPs will return from their constituencies tomorrow morning. But it could occur any time after that.

“Interestingly, there’s been a flurry of activity around the Square’s water supply. It seems that there has been an outbreak of Legionella and Public Health England are involved. I’m not sure whether this is a coincidence but it will certainly provide cover for anyone going up to the roof to tamper with the tanks. And it allows for me to go up at odd hours.”

On Monday morning, wearing overalls and with a very convincing ID, Titch approached the main reception at Dolphin House, asked to see the General Manager and told the person at the desk that he was there to inspect the source of the water supply. It was a productive few hours. He rang Ashton about 1pm and told him to put on a hi-viz jacket – Titch had a number of them – and come across and meet him in the lobby.

Ashton was nervous but Titch was in his element. “Ah, here is my assistant,” he said grandly. “Rightyo. Let’s go and look at the roof.”

A very affable and helpful member of staff took them to the ninth floor and then up a flight of stairs to a door. He opened it and they were on a flat roof with splendid views across the city. Ashton, who was nervous of heights, was impressed. In the distance was Westminster Cathedral and, as he swung to his right, the Houses of Parliament. From high above Pimlico the white, stucco multi-million pound townhouses contrasted even more starkly with red and grey tower blocks and maisonettes of the post-war council estates.

“I’m just going to tell my colleague what you’ve told me,” Titch said to their escort with the authority of someone who wasn’t used to being questioned. “I’ve got your number. I’ll call you when we are ready to come down.”

‘I’m not supposed to leave you,” the man said.

“There are things that need to be said in private,” Titch said sternly. “Do we need to go and see the General Manager?”

Sheepishly, their guide backed off.

“The General Manager is an absolute fool,” Titch said when they were alone. “One of those small people who think a double-barrelled name confers some sort of status. He’s a jobsworth whose sole ambition is to earn the approval of his bosses by making profits for them. No wonder the water system is a mess and tenants are contracting legionella. That is real, by the way. A newborn baby has the disease. It is awful.”

He explained what he had learnt to Ashton. The supply came from artesian wells and was collected in a number of reservoirs below ground. The water was then pumped up to two containers on the roof to build the pressure required to service the Square.

“There are a number of sites where a chemical agent could be introduced,” Titch said, “but the most obvious place to do it is up here. It would be the quickest way to get the toxic substance into the taps, showers and toilets of the flats.”

With great satisfaction Titch noted that the security, while more than adequate on a day-to-day basis, was lax by his high standards. And because of the ongoing investigation into the legionella health crisis there was plenty of opportunity to get onto the roof. “I’ve already suggested that there may be 24-hour spot inspections. The lack of communication and co-ordination in the public services means that if the subject is brought up with any real PHE investigators, they will probably express a little surprise but are unlikely to alert the management to the fact that we are frauds. I’ve been and visited the security office, seen their setup and made friends with the supervisor. The people who work here are very nice and efficient and keen to ensure the residents are safe. They are led by a moron, though, and that works in our favour.”

The walked towards the river. “This is the house where Orlanda lives,” Ashton said.

“She will come round, dear boy,” Titch said tenderly. By Monday the story was fading but it had been a bruising weekend. An ageing editor had once told Ashton: “Think hard before you write something nasty about someone. Ask yourself, do they deserve it? Their family, friends and acquaintances will see it. Strangers will recognise them. The eye of the media can be brutal. You must be certain that you do not use your power frivolously.”

Ashton thought he had taken the advice on board and been sensitive during his career. Over the past 48 hours he realised that he had not thought hard enough about the subjects of some of his stories and the impact of his work on some of their lives.

He knew things were 100 times worse for Orlanda. Titch sensed his turmoil. They stood overlooking the river for a quarter of an hour without speaking. “Come on,” Titch said. “I’ll be spending way too much time up here over the next few days. I’ve already picked a position where I’ll make myself invisible. I’ve checked the CCTV and I reckon I can get up here unnoticed. It feels like I’m going back to war.” He smiled brightly. Ashton shivered, and not because of the wind.

*

After the mayhem of the previous two months, the next two days felt like a lull. It was almost as if the world was back to normal. On Monday evening Ashton met Titch in the pub. It was their favourite night, often the quietest of the week. They sat and savoured their drinks – Ashton on Marble’s Manchester Bitter, his companion drinking a bottle of Wild Beer Co’s Modus Operandi – and tried to talk about anything but the events that were overshadowing their lives.

Football was the obvious subject but even that was maudlin. “I should be in Bavaria now,” Ashton said sadly. Liverpool were playing Bayern Munich in the Champions League.

“You would be better not bothering with the match and going next week,” Titch said. “The Starkbierfest begins on Friday. They tap this year’s Salvator at the brewery. It is much more enjoyable than Oktoberfest. Locals attend. It’s civilised.”

“The beer’s too strong for me,” Ashton said. “It’s 7.9 per cent. I want to be able to drink five pints without falling over.”

The small talk was forced. “Paulaner, of course, are linked with Bayern,” Ashton said. “The team celebrate trophies by drinking out of three-litre glasses on the pitch.”

They sat in silence. “You heard from Or…”

“No,” Ashton said abruptly, shutting down that avenue of conversation.

An alert went off on Titch’s phone. He gave his friend a knowing look and stepped outside the pub to make a call. Alone, Ashton checked twitter to view the next morning’s front pages. The headlines were dispiriting. Now Get Behind This Deal And Let’s Unite Britain, one said. There was no chance of that happening. It was going to be a fractious week and he feared that an atrocity would push the country over the edge.

Titch arrived back at the table and grinned. “Our Finnish friend is on the move. We are heading towards the endgame, I think. Same again?”

“Should we really be drinking?” Ashton was concerned the situation might spiral out of control and sobriety would be necessary.

“Oh no, dear boy. Nothing serious will happen tonight. This may be our last chance to relax and enjoy ourselves for some time.”

So they drank some more and, after the pub closed, retired to the mews. Ashton still had to steel himself when he entered the property. The psychological damage inflicted by the waterboarding incident would take a long time to heal – if it ever did.

“Let’s get some of the good stuff out,” Titch said. He went downstairs and returned with a bottle of Girardin Black Label gueuze. “This,” he said, “is the last of my stash. I bought it in 2001. It is 18 years old. I had 40 of them and now we’re down to this. I drank the penultimate bottle about three years ago and I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”

That sounded ominous to Ashton but he just nodded. “So let’s drink.”

The host produced two brewery-branded tumblers and uncorked the precious vessel. There was a slight pop when the stopper was released and a faint mist rose from the bottletop. “Let it vent for a minute,” Titch said in awed tones. “When the EU introduced best before dates, a couple of the Lambic producers put a 25-year best-before on their bottles. The bureaucrats soon stopped that.” He stoked the label. “Part of me wishes I could keep it for ever. But nothing lasts indefinitely. The anticipation has been glorious. But the time has come.”

He poured. The beer was flat. It looked extremely unappetising. Ashton was not the greatest fan of lambic beer. The drink was often too acidic for his stomach and sometimes too musty for his taste. He felt guilty drinking a share of this cherished beer. He was sure he wouldn’t like it.

Gingerly, he took a sip. The mouthfeel shocked him. The carbonation was still there and the sharpness had mellowed and taken almost all the sourness from the beer. There was still a graininess – it was an almost crystalline dryness – that was somewhere between champagne and cider. He looked up at Titch, who grinned approvingly. He had been watching Ashton’s thought process during the tasting.

“The greatest of drinks,” the big man said softly. “Life would be perfect if I could drink this, listen to flamenco and read Lorca all day. Instead, we must face down terrorists. Proost!”

“You know how to kill the moment,” Ashton said, the sense of dread sweeping over him again.” He drained his glass and then wandered home.

*

The phone rang at 7am. Ashton’s first thought was Pierce. And then he remembered. It was Titch.

“You’ll never guess where our friend Valtteri is holed up?”

It was too early for games. “Where?” Ashton said grumpily.

“Dolphin House,” Titch said in triumph. “He went to a Ukrainian club in Holland Park last night – I’ve been there a few times myself, excellent food – and then took a cab back to the Square. He did not go to reception so he already had the key to the room. He is still inside. I still don’t think it’s tonight but he is now in place. The lack of concern from people at my end worries me.”

“Couldn’t you have him arrested?”

“That is not how these things work, dear boy. You are applying the logic of law and order not dirty war.”

There was nothing for Ashton to do except pace around and worry. By late afternoon he had become frustrated. He went for a long run, jogging west until Albert Bridge before turning south to cross the river. He marvelled, as always, at the wartime sign on the long-redundant tollbooth that warned: “All troops must break step when marching over this bridge.” He imagined that some of those soldiers felt the same sense of doom he was experiencing.

He ran through Battersea Park and then along Nine Elms Lane, intending to circle back over Vauxhall Bridge, but he was drawn to continue along the south bank. He could not help himself and ran along the Albert Embankment. The Houses of Parliament, and the fever that surrounded the buildings, were pulling him towards them. There was no stopping it. He kept glancing across at the Palace of Westminster. The fear had him on a choke chain and it was tightening as he was dragged towards the epicentre of chaos.

Or was it because Orlanda was there?

Ashton felt a compulsion that was unstoppable. It was self-destructive. He was returning to where it all started.

There were groups of protestors milling around opposite Old Palace Yard, flying their flags and howling abuse. He pulled the brim of his cap down over his face and weaved through the crowd. Frank Joseph and his vile crew were there, spoiling for a fight, but there were too many police for things to get out of hand. Across in Abingdon Street Gardens the temporary TV studios were busy. On the scaffolding he could see MPs being interviewed. If he could retrace his steps and go back two months, he wondered, would he act in the same manner? He wished he had never heard of Joseph and the Football Lads Action Group. It was too late. He was committed now. Clearing the crowds, he pushed hard on the last mile, raced home and put the television on. The meaningful vote was looming.

*

The debate ran on and the tension built. The house was crowded and Ashton looked for a glimpse of Orlanda. She was visible when MPs crammed into the chamber after the division to await the result of the vote. He thought she looked strained and isolated.

The margin of defeat for the Government was unprecedented – the worst in history. The crisis was deepening. He continued watching as various MPs headed to the Lobby to conduct interviews. Orlanda came on camera and was composed, concise and clear. “Tomorrow we must remove the possibility of No Deal,” she said. “We cannot crash out of the EU without a deal. It would be irresponsible.”

As she moved away from the camera her head turned sharply and an angry expression crossed her face. Ashton suspected that one of the extreme anti-Europe Conservative MPs had said something unpleasant. The level of nastiness that she had borne had no place in civilised politics. He felt a primal urge to protect her but realised that the notion was stupid. She was more than capable of dealing with the situation.

He called Titch. “What can I do?” The answer was simple.

“Stay at home. Let me do my stuff now. We might be completely wrong. It may be that nothing is going to happen. But you can’t help any more.”

So that was it. He felt redundant. At a loose end, he checked the papers on social media. The headlines reflected the turmoil in the country: How Much More Of This Can Britain Take?; The House Of Fools; and the disturbing Time For A Final Say.

At about 11.30 he went to bed. It was a fraught night. He dreamt he was in the tiny cell in Poperinge, waiting to die in the morning, but instead of a firing squad a group of men held him down in a tiny Flanders graveyard, put a bag over his head and poured liquidy mud into his mouth. When he woke he could not breathe and the terror increased until his body took over the process from his mind and drew air into his lungs.

Afterwards he could not go back to sleep. Even when he briefly drifted off, he woke with a start at every noise. He was glad when the dawn came. It was going to be another long, depressing day.

*

With morning came some light. An email dropped into his inbox just after 7am from Orlanda’s personal account. The subject line said ‘Sorry.’

It read: “I’ve thought about what happened and have come to the conclusion that you had no involvement in the story. You would not have gone to The Sun under any circumstances. Why did you not tell me before that you were at Hillsborough and about your dad?

“This has been a difficult week in so many ways but I think it would improve if I could see you. It will be a long day in Parliament but the voting should be over by about 8pm. I am hoping to get away pretty quickly – Thursday will be another saga but hopefully will end this latest bout of madness. Would you like to come around and have a late supper?

“I am back in my own flat. I will leave the keys in the Key Office in Dolphin Square. You will need to pick them up by 8.15pm when it closes. You can go to the flat and wait for me. There’s some beer I bought for you in the fridge and some Indian food, too. I’ll call you when I’m on my way and you can put it on to heat up. I’d like to see you. X”

He was relieved. “See you later,” he wrote back. He left a kiss off it, not wanting to seem as eager as he was.

When he spoke to Titch, half an hour later, he was in much brighter spirits. His friend was in no mood to chat, though. “I’m about to go and inspect the water tanks,” Titch said. “Tonight would be the optimum time for an act of terror. I’ve got lots to do. You keep your head down.”

“Orlanda emailed me earlier. I’m going to see her tonight. She’s back in her own flat.”

“Yeah, good.” Titch was distracted. “I’ll call you. If you don’t hear from me by midnight start to worry. I’ll text you a number to call if that happens.”

All he could do was watch the build-up of political pressure again on the television and follow the twists and turns on twitter. Over the course of the day he began to think that perhaps his and Titch’s imaginations had run out of control. Then he remembered the events in the mews kitchen, the chase in Belgium and the horror of Granada. No, everything was too real.

Tonight, he thought, I will persuade Orlanda to either come back here or go to a hotel. He looked around his unkempt flat and decided that a tidy-up was in order. It took him an hour and a half to make the place presentable to a sensible, sober adult woman. He laughed at the thought of being domesticated.

Time dragged. Just after 8pm he dressed and strolled the 200 yards from his flat to the key office. A man in uniform was standing in the doorway. “Mike Ashton?” he asked, glancing at a clipboard. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’re our last one tonight.” Ashton showed his ID and was given the keys. For a moment he thought about walking over to the pub for a quick beer but dismissed the idea. The vote was looming when he left home. With a bit of luck Orlanda might be back earlier than expected.

He caught the lift up to her floor and stepped into the silent corridor. Out of previous habit, he checked the stairwells. There was no one around. He put the yale key in the lock and turned it. Nothing happened. She had double locked the door. Typical, he thought.

After another moment, he was able to enter. He switched on the hall light and walked into the living room. “Hello,” a voice said. It was a Geordie accent. A lamp flicked on. There, sitting at the far end of the room under the curtained window, was Killer. And he had a gun.

• Chapter 17: Up on the roof

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