The Angel of Whitehall Page 4

  “Good to be back?” O’Shea smiled, sensing how Cade had lifted, sat more upright, alert. He was back on his old ground.

  “You can take the boy out of England Carrie…”

  “That’s what they say. So now what? Where to from here? Have you told Ginger yet?”

  “Not yet. John Daniel is obviously aware now and will clear it with Lynne to travel back.”

  “So more of the same then? Long hours, you abandoning me to my fate and back to Scotland Yard in time for tea and medals with the new Prime Minister?”

  “Not so sure this time. I need to meet Tom first, find out just what it is he wants to tell me.”

  “You’ve flown twelve thousand miles to find out, it had better be good.”

  “He’s held this secret to himself for a while. He’s a sailor Carrie. Their stories are always worth listening to.”

  Cade accelerated, third to fourth, enjoying the small-engined, turbocharged Audi. “Doesn’t quite have the roar of the Jaguar does it?”

  “No, but then the exhaust note on that does remind me of a really hungry lion, just before it rips into a helpless baby antelope.”

  Cade loved how she loved cars, or at least pretended to.

  “A lion? Should really be a voracious Jaguar don’t you think?” he asked as he pulled back into the middle lane, allowing a marked Volvo patrol car to hurtle past him, its sirens demonstrating the true Doppler effect as it disappeared onwards into the light rain horizon.

  “We’ll be there in fifteen.”

  “Do you know what you are going to say yet?”

  “Nope. Not a clue. I’ll do what the best thriller writers do, just sit down and hope that what I say makes sense and captivates him enough to continue with the story.”

  “He’s got dementia, Jack. You need to allow for that. What if what he tells you is all nonsense?”

  “Then I’ll write a different book. I need to know what happened then, not now. Sufferers of dementia can remember way back, but forget what they had for breakfast.”

  “Says the man who can never find his car keys!”

  “Says the woman who promised not to get kidnapped.” He cringed.

  “Too soon Jack. Way too soon.” The look she gave him enforced it too. She had a reputation of stabbing people with stationery did Carrie O’Shea. Pencils were her weapon of choice. Freshly sharpened. They entered the skin with limited fuss.

  “Touché. I apologise to the lady unreservedly. Anyway, I never lose the keys to the Jag.” He indicated, turned off the M20 and onto a link road into Rochester, a town in Kent, and in a Jaguar F-Type about half an hour south of London.

  “Ready?”

  “No.” She smiled, gave him a hug. “I know how tough this is.”

  She knew.

  The last time Cade had walked out of the Wise Man Hospice was a turning point. Unable to talk, just shake a doctor by the hand, give her a hug, caring not if it was inappropriate. She was Nigerian or Ghanaian, West African anyway. She was impossible to age. Twenty-one or fifty? She was ageless with eyes that were the true window to a soul that would speak of a thousand stories if she ever allowed them to.

  He remembered her name: Adaeze. It meant princess. She had incredibly long dreadlocked hair, tied in an oversized knot. And conker-coloured eyes that melted him like chocolate in a schoolboy’s pocket.

  Dr Adaeze had walked back to his father’s bedside and waited whilst he left. It was something she had done before, and would do again.

  Turning for the last time, letting go of his father’s hand Cade could say nothing. His voice a hushed whisper. He had to let go of that hand. A hand that no longer had any strength, one that used to easily pick him up when he was a child, one that had strength to climb mountains and guide the lost and forlorn.

  One last look. It was the eyes; they were the last thing he remembered. The eyes never age.

  Tear-filled but determined.

  ‘I will not see my son for the last time like this.’ He forced himself to sit up, snagging his wrists as the tubes and life-supporting fluids jostled for attention.

  All he could do was smile and nod and somehow find the strength to say I love you. Through arid lips and watery eyes, he said it.

  And Cade just walked away. He had no other choice. He could hardly see, barely breathe. Barely stand.

  A plane waited at London Heathrow, and he had to board it. The place was its usual hard-hearted self. No one cared about what had just happened. He was desperate to go back. To share one last moment, a minute, a few stolen seconds to stay until the time came. He should have gone back. He should have stayed.

  It would be a singularly painful regret, that he carried forward and held, as a serviceman holds a lock of their loved one’s hair, in a silver locket close to his heart.

  O’Shea knew this was his one hang-up. It explained a lot about him.

  And now he was back in the same building. Entering for the first time and looking through the stained-glass window of the hospice chapel and hoping that his father would be still sat there, holding court with visitors, friends and colleagues – who also knew his days were numbered.

  He’d made an impression that was certain.

  Flirted with the nurses. He still had it in him.

  Cade smiled at the memory. And how when he had opened his old man’s bedside cabinet thirty single malt miniatures had tumbled out.

  A husky Nigerian voice behind Cade had said, “Well, it’s not going to kill him is it Jack?”

  She wore a locket of her own. He recalled that clearly. More a padlock, on a chain. He never had chance to ask, but she guarded it and the secrets within closely.

  And she was there today. In the same corridor, wearing a different trouser suit but the hair was the same, and the locket still there. And the smile.

  “Jack Cade! Well, look at you.”

  It stopped him in his tracks. Deep, sensual tones.

  “Adaeze.” It all came back, physical and mental visitors tugging at his every sinew.

  “It’s so good to see you again. I’m so truly sorry that you didn’t get back for the funeral.”

  She hugged him and shook O’Shea’s hand warmly. Soft hands, kind heart. A blouse, buttoned up to the neck, as if she were hiding something.

  “So, what brings the policeman back to the hospice, eh, Jack? Can’t be easy.” She pointed to a corner. “And you paid your dues by sitting on that static bike for hours and raising money for the work we do here.”

  “I did. Still can’t walk properly.” He looked around. Saw where his father had spent his last days. A new patient lay there now, surrounded by cards, and hearts and balloons. It was, like many hospices, a perversely happy place.

  “Come on. I’m intrigued.” She was walking towards her office.

  “Official business, or do you have another relative with us?”

  “A spoonful of the latter and potentially a large helping of the former. It really depends.”

  “On?”

  “On what Mr. Denby has to tell me.”

  “Tom? Such a dear old soul, wouldn’t hurt a fly, he tells some great tales of the sea, to anyone that will listen. He certainly looks the part, with his white hair and beard. Between you and me though, I don’t think he was ever in the navy! But I knew he’s an angel. You’ll be lucky to get an hour out of him. Come on, I’ll take you to meet him.”

  O’Shea looked at Cade. Her eyes said, ‘Well? Was it a wasted journey?’

  They entered the dayroom, a place full of high-backed, wipe-clean beige or orange chairs and shelves full of un-read books, or one or two that had been marked, half way but never finished.

  It was a warm room with pockets of gloom, but daylight entered easily, lifting the mood. A television played to anyone that could be bothered to listen. A game show with multi-choice questions which one old man answered religiously, looking around at the crowd whenever he got one right.

  Cade took the initiative. Remembered how his old man used to pract
ically run the place, getting everyone into a routine. The room had an eclectic mix of young and old. The old were old, and dying. The young, somehow far too young but also desperately clinging to months or days.

  “Good morning everyone.” He was upbeat.

  One old man wearing a navy-blue sweater, a matching blazer, a striped tie with a gold crest and cream-coloured slacks, replied with a mouthful of tea. “Fuck off!”

  Cade could do nothing but laugh. A few sheepish family visitors tried not to laugh and rein their relative in.

  “Well, that’s not very nice Michael, is it?” Adaeze was quick to admonish the old veteran, hospice or not.

  “I don’t want to be nice. You can fuck off too, nurse.”

  “It’s doctor actually and frankly, so can you.”

  It was how it was.

  “Come on, he’s through here, in the conservatory.”

  They walked twenty paces and entered a much warmer, brighter place where an old man sat, hands in his lap, trying to lift his head, staring out of the window, trapped inside his own mind, battling with the urge to fall asleep, again. He wore a navy-blue blazer with a tarnished gold-wired badge sewn onto the left breast pocket, which he wore over a brown jumper and a pair of much-loved beige trousers and tartan slippers.

  “Tom, you’ve got visitors.”

  He looked up and smiled an infectious smile.

  “You made it then?” Broad Lancashire accent, a voice filled with wisdom, and hope. “I was expecting young Daniel.”

  “We did. John is aware. I’ve tracked him down. He’s coming over soon. For now, I’m Jack – and this is my partner Carrie.”

  “Partner or girlfriend?” He winked at O’Shea who blushed.

  “Partner, as in work Tom. I can call you Tom, can’t I?”

  “You can call me anything you like…” He paused, fishing for the line. “Anyway, it was something about being late for breakfast, it doesn’t matter. It’s lovely to see you.” He held up a time-served hand that was warmer than it looked. Cade noticed the other was battered, missing a finger or two, mangled almost. God alone knew what had happened to that.

  “I got a call from your son Digby.”

  “I know you did, lad. He said you’d be calling in. I’ve been right looking forward to meeting you.” He seemed completely compos mentis.

  “And you, sir. May we sit with you?”

  “Well, you’ll get bloody tired standing. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “We would. Carrie?” The look said please, go and get it whilst I break the ice.

  “Good. Right in that case, Jack we’ll have three, all with milk but nice and strong and no sugar, it’s bad for you. Off you go, I want to chat up this gorgeous lady.” He waited. “Still here?”

  Cade walked to the nearby kitchen smiling. If he could harness the moment, he might find what it was that Lieutenant Commander Thomas A. Denby, Royal Navy Retired had tucked away in his own dark locket.

  The old man leant forward and took O’Shea’s hand in his.

  “Tell me my love, is there hope for us?” It took O’Shea by surprise, but she recovered quickly.

  “Tom! You old dark horse you. I’m old enough…”

  “Well, that’s always a good thing. He seems a nice lad does Jack. Is he kind to you?”

  “He is.”

  “Grand. Did Michael Turner tell you to fuck off?”

  “If that’s his name, then yes, he did.”

  “Stupid old fool. About time he buggered off across the Rainbow Bridge and did us all a favour. I might smother him in his bed tonight.”

  “I think the Rainbow Bridge is where old dogs go isn’t it Tom?”

  “Exactly. Anyway, here’s the tea.” He rubbed his hands together. Tea was obviously a highlight in the waiting room of life.

  “Right. You’ve lost your chance with Carrie. She’s said yes!” He winked a bright blue eye at Cade. “Lovely tea. Now whilst you sit and relax after your long flight, I’ll begin. You can make notes or just listen. Either way, I may not be able to ever do this again and should I fall asleep just give me a prod with my walking stick.”

  “Do you mind if I record us chatting?” O’Shea was on the ball and levering off the earlier flirtation.

  “Of course not. Besides, when this all comes to fruition I may be long gone.”

  “Here’s hoping not Tom.” Cade meant every word.

  “Lad, I know what’s happening. I just don’t let on. I’m far from mad, and I’m a sick man, so now is the time that I need to pass on my story. And it’s all true, every word.” He seemed so incredibly together. Dementia be damned.

  “Now, before I begin, did Michael tell you to fuck off?”

  “He did that. I should have slapped him.” Cade replied trying his best not to laugh.

  Denby looked across at Adaeze and smiled a boyish smile, waving, then shrugging his shoulders, as if he was releasing a huge weight from them, then closed his eyes, taking himself back to where it had all started.

  “I joined the navy as a young boy. Just before the outbreak of the war. I did it the hard way. Bulled my boots each night, jumped when they told me to jump, swam, ran, and listened, and learned. When the war broke out I was quickly promoted. They said I was a good listener – that the war would be soon over and that they needed young men like me to be the future of the Royal Navy.”

  He slumped slightly, the warmth of the room getting to him. He jolted awake and continued.

  “My first year was relatively quiet, given there was a war on. I learned quickly though Jack, just like they said. And you mature quickly too when people are firing at you and your men are dying. Anyway, the war started to take shape, looked to be lasting a little while longer than we had been told and that is when I was posted to HMS Impulsive.”

  “That’s a strong name.” O’Shea knew little about the military but she knew when to interject and keep the old veteran engaged.

  “Aye that’s true. Mother said it was named after me! Now, Impulsive was sent to support the Allied Convoys – you’d know them as the Arctic Convoys, perhaps? She was a new ship and boy was she fast! We did a number of runs up to Russia to support Stalin. Weapons and planes at first then as winter set in, food and logistics. There were a few of us, minesweepers too, all out there in the brutal cold to protect the freighters and oilers, and we got through time and time again.” It was clear he was there once more.

  “Many a time we had to be out on deck, chipping ice off of the equipment before it ruined it. When people say it’s cold here, I ask if they have ever drank a hot cup of tea in Archangel or Murmansk in the winter.”

  “Why?” Cade was genuinely interested – had no idea where the tale was heading, but wasn’t in the mood to change course.

  “Because you knew who had, Jack. It was so bitingly cold any sudden heat shattered the enamel on your teeth. Boy, she was cold. Never known anything like it since.” He took a gentle sip of his own hot drink and shivered involuntarily.

  “But we were successful!” He almost punched the air. “They called the early convoys PQ on the way up and the homeward bound runs were QP. Simple. But we could never relax. When Herr Hitler started to cotton on, we began to lose ships.” He bowed his head. No sailor liked to see a ship sink, it was as if a part of him had drifted beneath the waves and down towards the seabed.

  “I watched freighters and warships, their backs broken by torpedoes, watched them slip beneath the frigid waves. Christ, I even heard of one warship that managed to torpedo itself. They were desperate times. All those young men. Down, and down and then gone. It got harder from there on. So we had to fight smarter. We had big guns and anti-aircraft weapons and torpedoes. But they had U-boats. Bloody things. We hated them.”

  Denby continued to outline the role the navy had in supporting the Russians, went off at tangents, even regaled the story of a sailor who he remembered was called Pat White and therefore in the navy was affectionately known as Chalky.

  “Chalky wa
s swept off the deck of the Impulsive during an awful bloody storm off the Norwegian coast. We were on the way up to Murmansk. They said he had three minutes in the water before he died. Three minutes, that’s all. And after that no one could save him. It was too dangerous to stop you see.”

  “That’s terrible Tom. Poor man.” O’Shea held his hand.

  “No it’s not, the very next wave picked him up and dumped him back on the stern, the lucky bugger. Broke his nose and a few ribs but he survived! True story that. I think he lives in Australia now.”

  Cade could do nothing more than listen and admire. And wonder when the part that involved him might start.

  “We were awarded a medal by the Russians. The Medal of Ushakov. I gave mine to my son. Did you know there was a Russian submarine in the river, just down the road from here?”

  It was a sudden and unexpected detour and one that Cade had been warned about.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, there is. B-39. The Black Widow some call her. It’s not her real name – because the Russians didn’t give their subs names.”

  “Marvellous.”

  “It is. She’s a bit dilapidated nowadays but used to be part of the Soviet Pacific Fleet. You can see her from the train, on the way to London.” He was drifting now and Cade knew he needed to grab a line and haul him back in.

  “So, Tom, what can I do to help you?” It was the sixty-four-million-dollar question and had to come sooner or later.

  “Do you know I thought you’d never ask lad. What I need you to do, perhaps your team, is try to tap into my bloody mind and retrieve all that I have misplaced. Sometimes, when I talk things come back to me as if it were yesterday, suddenly, and when they are back I, or perhaps you, have to make hay whilst the sun shines. You see, I’ve just told you about that Russian sub.”

  “You have. And?”

  “And I now know it’s got nothing to do with us. But I can see a ship, tied up alongside a river, she’s a fine-looking ship too.”

  “And where would this lovely old lady be tied up?”