Adrian Magson - Deception

Rik didn’t respond, so Harry picked out a summary at random; it was Sgt Barrow. That would do. There was an active mobile number, so he picked up the phone and dialled. It rang out six times before going to a standard robot voicemail. He decided to leave a message. It seemed too simple, somehow, but he wondered if anyone else had thought of it. ‘Graham, my name’s Harry Tate,’ he said carefully. ‘I want to help you. I work in conjunction with the MOD, but I imagine you’re not sure who to trust right now, so I won’t waste time trying to sell you a deal. Call me and we’ll talk. This isn’t as bad as you think.’ He added Rik’s landline number, with the overseas dialling prefix for the UK, then cut the connection. If Barrow was out there and listening, and became desperate enough, he might call back.

Rik was looking at him. ‘What am I — a call centre?’

‘No, you’re walking wounded. If he rings back and I’m not here, I’ll need you to talk to him and find out where he is. Then let me know.’ He paused, remembering Ballatyne’s cold-as-permafrost warning for Rik to keep his nose clean. If he was going to get Rik to help, he needed his understanding of the background to the job, and that included the dangers involved. ‘If we get into this, there’s no straying into official files. Ballatyne knows your history and he’ll be watching.’

Rik had held up a hand. ‘No problem, boss,’ he promised with a sly grin. ‘I’ll be as good as gold.’

‘You’d better. Otherwise I’ll save Ballatyne the trouble and shoot you myself.’

Anglesey was shrouded by a squally curtain of drizzle as Harry drove along the coast road and turned into a small lane leading to the bungalow where Vanessa Tan’s parents had lived for many years. It was set on a slope, an extended building in mature grounds overlooking the Menai Strait. At any other time he would have enjoyed the scenery and tranquillity away from the city, but right now he had other things on his mind.

After drawing a blank with Barrow’s mobile, he had decided to take a closer look at Tan’s background. It had meant a long drive, but the solitude had allowed him to trawl for ideas and let his brain focus on the best ways of getting to Tan and the other personnel, and, through them, the Protectory. Along the way, he had stopped at irregular intervals, doubling back for short distances to check he wasn’t being tailed. It was basic stuff, and time-consuming, but necessary to ensure he stayed clean.

He parked on the side of the lane just across from the Tan bungalow and studied the building. Set some eighty yards from its nearest neighbour, it looked closed off, remote from the world, with the empty look of something long abandoned. The rain was doing nothing to dispel the air of stolid gloom, aided by the unkempt lawn, weed-filled flowerbeds and paint peeling from the wooden window frames. A glut of moss and leaves had filled the guttering and rainwater was trickling on to the ground from numerous points where the blockage was most acute. He left the car and walked up the open paved drive to the front door. It was fitted with a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a fish. He lifted it and let it drop with a hollow boom .

No reaction. He waited, then knocked again. The fish was tarnished, unused, and the letterbox had been sealed shut. No sounds from inside, no sense of movement. He took out his mobile and rang the landline. No good trying Tan’s mobile number, it was showing unobtainable. He could hear the phone ringing inside. It had that empty quality.

‘Can I help you?’

The voice came from the lane behind him. He turned and saw a tall, trim woman in her fifties standing at the end of the driveway. She was wearing a green waterproof and walking boots, and had a lock of wet hair plastered down one cheek, courtesy of the rain. Harry walked back down the drive and smiled to put her at her ease.

‘I’m looking for Vanessa Tan,’ he said. ‘I thought she might be in.’

‘Vanessa?’ The woman lifted one eyebrow. ‘Goodness, she hasn’t been around for years. May I ask who you are?’

Harry took out his wallet and showed her his card with the official portcullis logo in one corner. It was a useful leftover from his MI5 days, although it didn’t say anything about the Security Services in writing.

‘Oh. Government.’ The woman looked impressed. ‘Sorry — only we have to be so careful these days, don’t we?’ She tucked the stray hair back behind her ear. ‘Excuse the state of me — I like walking in the rain. I find it therapeutic. I’m Margaret Crane; the next house up. I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Tate. Vanessa left home to go to uni some years back, and that’s the last we saw of her. Maureen, her mother — she died just over a year ago now — always told us Vanessa was doing well, but she never came home to visit, as far as I know.’ She glanced up at the sad-looking bungalow. ‘Such a shame, leaving the place empty like this. I think Maureen must have hoped Vanessa would come back one day, and she’d have this waiting for her. It needs someone living in it, though, rather than simply being patched up. But that’s young people for you, isn’t it? A different sense of responsibility, I suppose.’

Harry saw what she was referring to: a wooden panel had been fitted over one of the smaller windows. It had the appearance of what his father had once called a long-term temporary fix, something that would do until a better alternative came along. ‘So who does the patching up?’

‘A management chap comes round every now and then, but he never says anything. Checks it’s sound, I imagine, does whatever needs doing, then goes away.’ She gestured vaguely in the direction of the coast road. ‘There’s quite a few like this, though; empty year-round, never a sight or sound of who owns them, makes you wonder why they bought them in the first place. And they say there’s a housing shortage.’ She shook her head at the absurdity of it.

‘Do you know which company?’

She nodded. ‘They’re local. Menai Management. In the centre of Caernarfon.’

‘Thank you. I don’t suppose you know if Vanessa has any friends in the area?’

‘I doubt it. She was such a quiet girl growing up — and her mother always kept her nose to the grindstone. Wanted her to go to university and get a good job. She was too hard on her, in my opinion, always pushing her to excel, poor kid — as if she might make up for being a bit plain by having a string of letters after her name. Her father wanted it, too, don’t get me wrong, but he died when she was in her teens.’ She looked sad. ‘I’m not surprised she never came back, not once she got away. All that pressure — it was bound to tell in the end. Still, if hard work was the way to succeed, Maureen made sure that was how Vanessa would do it.’ She waved a vague hand towards the bungalow. ‘Makes you wonder why she keeps this place on, though, doesn’t it? If she’s never coming back.’

In exchange for her number, Harry left his card with Mrs Crane with a request that she call if she thought of anything useful, and returned to the car. Mrs Crane stood and watched him leave. Maybe, he thought, strange men calling on houses in the area constituted real excitement up here.

He got the number of Menai Management and got through to the office manager, Ian Griffiths, who said, ‘Sorry, Mr Tate. Can’t help you. There’s a standing order for the management fee, paid up to date. Instructions are to continue until notified otherwise. We don’t have authority to sell, if that’s what you’re after. I can’t give any further information, though, not over the phone and without proper authority-’

Harry cut the connection and drove into Caernarfon. The man was only doing his job, but he could do without the confidentiality runaround. He found the offices of Menai Management next to a chemist and stepped inside. The staff consisted of a pasty-faced man in his early thirties with a premature comb-over. He was sprawled behind a PC looking bored, and glanced up as Harry entered. He tapped a key, shutting down the screen.