The Angel of Whitehall Read online

He turned to his crewman and handed back the binoculars. “Come on, we need to cover the boat. They’ll be bringing a helicopter soon, there’s no other safe way to get men onto the ship. And if they are up there, we will stand out.”

  They gathered old branches and bits of scrap and managed to conceal their only lifeline.

  “Make sure they stay dry and well fed. I will get more food if I need to.” Many of his thoughts were now ad hoc, but he often worked better that way.

  Five hours later Denby, along with Charlie Brock, an experienced crewman, left the fort and under the layer of dark winter clouds and an intensely cold night they headed back across the river.

  They slowly approached the island, getting as far away from prying eyes as possible, to the side of the fort, slowly edging forward and around a rusting hull of an old barge until the boat met some resistance where the mud became sand.

  “Let’s go. We leave in half an hour.” They both checked their watches. Thirty minutes between a life and possibly never knowing.

  They moved as quickly as they could without artificial light. Across scrubland and towards the main door. They entered and waited, listened. Nothing. They moved through the ground floor layer of tunnels and beautifully constructed brick archways, at each one they noticed a fireplace. He hoped she had the ability to stay warm. Now safely inside and more confident they illuminated their torches.

  The place was a death-trap. Corroded, rotten, crumbling in places, defiant in others.

  A barn owl suddenly left its roost, dropping down and flying low and silently away into the darkness. Both men stopped and took a moment. They felt the waft of air as the magnificent nocturnal hunter swept past them, irritated at their presence.

  Each could hear the other man’s heart beating as they edged further round the fortress, each gun port was the same as the last, brambles scrambling for the light, invading the brickwork, grass growing over the structure with a relentless desire to cover it completely.

  Lichen and moss grew across the stonework and made the journey hazardous. Where once iron railings had acted as guides up the stone stairways there were now drops of twenty feet down to the magazine rooms below, in the subterranean level that was invisible from the river level.

  Water was a constant threat to the fort in its day and now Denby and Brock were taking a little longer to move through the building, proceeding with care for among the water lay countless years of decaying stone and iron and military flotsam, old cap badges and spent munitions, legacies of the more recent occupation during World War Two, then more recently abandoned rubbish, left behind by careless visitors to the island.

  Brock checked his watch discreetly. They had covered half of the fort in twenty minutes.

  “It’s too big sir, we’ll never find her.”

  “You are assuming she is still alive?”

  “I have to hope sir, yes.”

  “Good lad. I am praying she is too.”

  Then they heard it. A soft tone, visceral perhaps? An animal? Nature had already taken over and what was once man made was now very much at the behest of Mother Nature and her army of workers.

  “There? Did you hear it?”

  “I did, lad.” He held a hand up. Shone his torch towards another staircase. In the corner was a pair of old brickwork latrines and tucked into the darkest corner was the little girl, her eyes shining back like a frantic animal in the headlights of a truck bearing down on her on an isolated highway. She personified afraid.

  “It’s OK my love, it’s Mister Tom. You are OK…” He held out a hand.

  She stepped out of the archway and began to sob. He stepped forward and picked her up as Brock removed a blanket from his backpack. They gave her fresh water too, gathered from the rooftop of the opposing fort.

  “Eat this.” It was a block of Kendal Mint Cake. A favourite of Denby’s since childhood. Favoured by explorers, it provided a massive hit of glucose and therefore energy.

  “Nice?” He smiled.

  She smiled back and hugged him once more.

  “Come on flower, let’s get you out of here.”

  How she had survived was a story in itself. She had shown that she had enormous courage and belief, never losing hope that someone would return for her.

  As young as she was, she had decided, alone in the Victorian sea fort that if she survived, she would be a nurse when she became older.

  Denby was making progress now, covering the same route back to the boat. He knew the tide would begin to change soon so speed was of the essence, that and getting the girl back to warmth and the boat hidden away once more.

  Brock steered the boat out into the wider part of the river and they motored back as quickly and quietly as they could, praying that the branches and undergrowth they had spread across the hull would make them less easy to see. The last thing they needed was to be discovered.

  Denby held her, felt her involuntary shivering slowly abate as his own bodily warmth removed the deep-seated chill from her youthful bones. God alone knew how she had survived exposure and shock.

  “You are Mister Tom?” she asked in a soft croaky voice.

  “Yes, I am dear. And what is your name?”

  “I am called Adaeze.”

  “Well, isn’t that a beautiful name?”

  “Thank you.” She hugged him. “Please don’t leave me Mister Tom.”

  “Adaeze, I promise. I will always be just a heartbeat away.”

  “Are you an angel?”

  “Well lass, I’ve never considered myself one, but if you say so, then yes, I am an angel.”

  She held his hand and was asleep before they reached the island.

  Chapter Ten

  London, 2016

  Cade and O’Shea reached the hotel before the rush hour had had chance to set in, throttling the traffic and the arterial routes that surrounded one of the busiest cities in the world.

  The car was left with a valet and parked only God knew where. It was fine; it was a rental, not the Jag.

  “After you.” Cade nodded to the grey-suited doorman who stood waiting at the entrance to the Royal Horseguards Hotel, Whitehall Court.

  “Madam. Welcome, please let me assist you with your luggage. How was your journey?”

  “Short and sweet thank you.”

  “Then you don’t travel light madam!” he said with a smile, judging his audience well.

  “Ah, well, the original journey was a whole lot longer.”

  “Australia?”

  “No, New Zealand.”

  “But I detect a hint of the city in that voice?”

  “You can take the girl out of London…” She looked at his name badge. “Kenneth.”

  “I know. No need to finish that sentence. And it’s a pleasure to have you both staying with us again at the Royal Horseguards. I’ll leave Jenny to check you in.”

  “Hello Jenny. Mr. and Mrs. Cade, three nights and hopefully breakfast.”

  “Three nights it is Mr. Cade. I have put you in the King Room with a lovely view over the river. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  In ten minutes, they were in their room, luggage delivered, bed turned down and an arguably perfect view across the Thames.

  Five minutes later O’Shea had walked out of the en suite wearing navy blue Heidi Klum knickers, a matching bra and a knowing smile.

  Cade pulled her towards him and kissed her. It was short and far from sweet. Visceral almost. He pushed her down into a red leather chair, on her knees, facing across the river, paused a moment so she could see herself in the reflection, then undid her bra and let it drop to the ground.

  Five more minutes passed before she was stood against the white French doors, trying to take control but yielding to his actions. Her hands were planted against the glass, fingers spread wide, watching the people on the south bank, milling around, waiting to board the London Eye as Cade slowly pulled her knickers down across her thighs, allowing her to flick them away across the red carpet. He held her breasts which wer
e moving in time to his now athletic hip movements.

  He looked into the reflection. God, she looked good. But that scar, did it still hurt? An angry red X was still visible across her stomach and he was cautious not to hurt her. “Just ignore it, Jack. Just…”

  She stifled a scream as the world outside went about its business, her naked body now pressed up against the glass – complete abandon, loving every second. No one would hear her. The building was old and very well made. Solid walls, solid floors. Do what you want with me. I’m yours. And you, Mr. Cade, are mine. They cared not who saw them now in their dark room whilst outside the streets began to flicker and come to life.

  On board the iconic Ferris wheel, only a hundred metres away, tourists marvelled at the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sights of London. One old man in particular delighted in his own personal show, as late-night commuters hustled and bustled their way to a train or bus or apartment he stood for a moment, ancient binoculars in aged hands and took it all in. Every last moment.

  ‘He’s a lucky man indeed.’

  Their river view room would hold just one more secret in a building that had held countless clandestine meetings over the years. From illicit Victorian affairs and best-kept scandals, to the war years where the apartments were home to the first chief of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.

  Best-kept secrets. They showered, together, then dressed smart-casually for dinner.

  “Happy to eat in the hotel?” Cade knew the answer.

  “I am if you are. It looks great.”

  The maître d’hôtel met them at the entrance to the award-winning One Twenty One Two restaurant in the heart of the building.

  “Table for two sir?”

  “Please.” Cade allowed O’Shea to be seated then lowered himself into the red upholstered chair.

  “Thank you for today Carrie.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “I meant…”

  “I know what you meant. I was trying to lighten the tone.”

  “Oh, I think you did that quite well an hour ago Miss O’Shea.” He winked an ocean-blue eye, the same eyes that she had first noticed many years before when they worked together at Scotland Yard, trying to outfox the man they called the Jackdaw.

  “I love the history of this place. Do you know why the restaurant is called One Twenty One Two?” She looked at him over the top of her menu, sipping mineral water and provocatively rinsing the freshly applied lipstick from her teeth.

  “No, actually I don’t. But I suspect you are about to enlighten me.”

  “It’s named after Whitehall 1212. Sound familiar?”

  “It does. Scotland Yard’s old phone number?”

  “Wonderful history isn’t it? Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “I bet. Right, what’s on tomorrow’s menu?”

  “I guess we’ll see what the morning brings, then scoot back down the motorway to speak to Tom. Or I can go on my own.”

  “Would that be OK? I’d love to go back to the Yard and meet up with the team for coffee, if that’s alright?”

  “Of course it is Carrie. I’m not your boss now.”

  “You could have fooled me.” She flashed her own suggestive wink.

  They finished their meal and moved into the Equus Bar.

  The resident barman was extolling the virtues of a bottle of scotch to a pair of well-dressed American businessmen.

  They said good evening to Cade and his delightful-on-the-eye partner and walked to a corner to sit and chat.

  “Nice to see a woman with a few curves for a change…” One said to the other in an apparent attempt at Texan subtlety.

  “Better to have a few curves than be blatantly overweight.” O’Shea smiled confidently in an equally unashamed display of London subtlety. The two businessmen got the point and continued with their conversation.

  The barman, a thirty-something Scot, beamed at Cade and O’Shea.

  “Good evening folks, what can I get you?”

  “Allow me to order?” Cade knew that within reason O’Shea would try anything once.

  “Of course…but don’t make it boring.” She went to find two chairs. The bar followed the theme, subtle lighting, red upholstered furniture and a comforting atmosphere.

  “In that case, you heard her. I’ll have a Winston Churchill for the lady – and for me…” He perused the top shelf. “A Laphraoig please.”

  “The eighteen or the twelve sir?”

  “The eighteen. When in Rome.”

  “I get where you are coming from sir and may I say what a superb choice.” He almost danced about the bar area, placing his hand on bottles without looking.

  “You know they are stopping making this lovely stuff at the end of the year? It will be worth buying a few bottles and storing it in secret…it’s an absolute delight on the palate.”

  “I shall have my secretary order some in.”

  “The smoothest single malt I have ever tasted. Did you know that Sir Winston Churchill was a regular here?”

  “I do now. You can only imagine what it was like back then. All cigars and politics and bluster!”

  He mixed as he spoke. “My name’s Jock by the way.”

  “Of course it is Jock. What else would a man from Glasgow be called?”

  “Indeed. Now into this I add Maker’s Mark Kentucky Whiskey, Laphraoig single malt, tobacco syrup that I make myself and some bitters.” He crafted the drink as a chemist would mix cherished potions.

  “Nice to witness that history though, sir. You know, for one night only. Anyhow there you go.” He placed the drinks with obvious pride down onto a couple of coasters and rang the amount into the till against Cade’s room.

  “Actually Jock, sorry, can you make me another cocktail?”

  “Absolutely I can. What’s your poison?”

  “Well, between us it’s for the lady, I’ll have the Churchill.”

  “Then can I recommend the Earl Grey Vesper Martini?”

  “You can. What’s in it?”

  “A few secrets.” He smiled as he mixed O’Shea’s drink. “I created this one after a challenge by the Head Chef. He wanted me to come up with something that paid homage to the building’s wonderful history – you know, all the secrets, and lies and espionage?”

  “Ah yes, all Double Oh and keeping the British end up.”

  “Exactly. Now this little beauty will match secretary’s equally lovely looks – Christ forgive me, if you don’t mind me saying…”

  “I’m sure she won’t. Stop digging and shake…”

  “This has Earl Grey infused vodka, we make that here in the hotel, some beautiful London Sipsmith gin, a generous splash of Lillet blanc, all shaken vigorously over ice.”

  “Superb. Thank you.” Cade picked up the drinks and went to walk to O’Shea.

  “Sir. Don’t forget the Laphraoig whatever you do!”

  “Actually, that’s for you Jock. With my compliments.”

  He reached O’Shea, sat and chinked his glass against hers.

  “Up against the glass again Miss O’Shea.”

  “Jack Cade you are very naughty.”

  “Well, you started it. Anyway, Jock the barman thinks you are my secretary.”

  “Oh, does he now? You know what, let him. It kind of adds to the illusion that you men seem to obsess about.

  “He has a point. You couldn’t take some notes whilst I talk could you?”

  “I could slap you with this chair if you like. Cheeky bugger!”

  He smiled. Loved it when she got angry. “Here’s to us and a chance to breathe. To tomorrow.”

  She smiled. She was happy. Her past exactly where it needed to be.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Wise Man Hospice

  Cade had woken early, pulled the Egyptian cotton across Carrie’s naked back and wrote a note, leaving it on his pillow. He picked up her underwear and placed it on one of the two red chairs. She would apprec
iate that; obsessive and compulsive as she could be at times – but lessening with every passing day.

  She had slept the sleep of kings, recovering from the immense journey across many time zones and back into her homeland. He didn’t want to disturb her, wanted to get on the road early.

  It seemed almost cowardly after the night before.

  The handprints were still visible on the French doors. He’d leave them there, give the cleaners something to smile about when they finally checked out.

  He arrived at the hospice an hour later, parked and walked in.

  He was met by Adaeze.

  “Hello Jack.” Her face telegraphed what she was about to say.

  “No?” Cade felt a rush, a tidal surge of emotion. “No…”

  “It’s OK. He’s fine. Well, actually he isn’t. He’s probably had a mild stroke in the night. His son and family members are with him. I think you got the best out of him yesterday. I’ll let his son know you are here.”

  “Thank you,” was all he could find in reply. He stood and waited in the chapel that lay just off the main reception. He stared through the stained-glass door and recalled seeing his own father through the coloured glass, knowing he’d got weeks to live.

  His mind was distracted enough to miss a blonde woman walking from the main ward and out through reception. Well dressed, nice shoes, flaxen hair in a ponytail and a confident walk.

  A minute or so later he heard a familiar voice which brought him back to the here and now.

  “Jack?”

  “Sorry mate. I was miles away. A combination of long-haul travel and sorrow. You must be Digby?” They shook hands.

  “I am. The doctor told you what happened last night?”

  “She did. Mate I do hope my meeting with him didn’t bring this on?”

  “Far from it. In one respect it might have done him a favour. He had no idea of the advanced state of his cancer.”

  Cade was damned if he did and more so if he didn’t.

  “Digby, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Your dad was, is still a remarkable man.”

  “Oh, I know that already. Tell me, did you manage to get anything out of him? Did he tell you about the albatross?”