Circle of Death - Strike Back Series 05 (2020) Page 2

‘Better, actually,’ he said in his heavy Bristol accent. ‘No thanks to you.’

  He stared coldly at Cantwell. The latter smiled apologetically. ‘As I said before, I am terribly sorry about all that. That business about you fabricating stories, it really had nothing to do with me. A rogue employee, I’m afraid. It should have never happened.’

  Gregory stared at him for a long cold beat. Cantwell could see the anger simmering behind the man’s eyes. He smiled warmly and said, ‘Anyway, I’m glad to see you looking so well.’

  Which was a lie, Cantwell knew. Cantwell himself had lost a little of his old sheen. His hair was thinner these days, and at five-six and weighing seventeen stone, he had grown fat in his middle age. Too many boozy lunches at the Dorchester, too many late-night drinks in the City with old colleagues. But compared to the guy standing in front of him, Cantwell looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ magazine.

  ‘You’re doing well, I see,’ Gregory said, glancing around the conference room.

  Cantwell offered a humble shrug. ‘You know how it is. The work never stops.’

  ‘I bet.’

  Gregory grunted. He finished casting a judgemental gaze over the furnishings and then swung his gaze back to Cantwell.

  ‘This was a surprise, I’ll admit,’ he said. ‘You agreeing to meet with me.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, old chap.’ Cantwell waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. ‘Water under the bridge and all that. You were just doing your job.’

  ‘That wasn’t what you said at the time, as I recall. What was it you called me again? An inbred West Country fuckwit, wasn’t it?’

  Cantwell wrung his hands. ‘Some things were said in the heat of the moment. I regret saying them. Honestly, Nick, I bear no malice towards you.’

  He gestured to the chairs. ‘Please. Sit down.’

  Gregory planted himself back down in his chair. There was an A4 legal pad in front of him with lines of scribbled notes, a couple of biro pens and his phone. Cantwell took up a seat opposite the journalist, reached for a bottle of sparkling water and poured himself a glass. On the other side of the table, Gregory swiped to unlock his phone and tapped open some sort of voice-recording app.

  Cantwell cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Nick I’d prefer it if this conversation was off the record.’

  Gregory opened his mouth as if to protest, then took a snap decision and shrugged. ‘Fine. As you wish.’

  He closed the app, put his phone to sleep and adjusted his thick round glasses.

  ‘I’ll get straight to it,’ he said. ‘As I’ve already explained, I’ve been researching some disturbing claims made by a former senior employee of yours. Stuart Goodwin.’

  Cantwell smiled thinly. ‘I’d hardly call him senior, Nick. As a matter of fact, I barely knew the chap. Stuart worked here for a couple of months, as I recall, before we had to let him go.’

  ‘Mr Goodwin claimed that he was forced out of the company unfairly.’

  ‘That’s not how I remember it.’

  Gregory tilted his head and frowned. ‘Oh?’

  ‘The reality is – and this isn’t a very comfortable topic, as you might imagine – Stuart was a troubled individual. He struggled badly with addiction. Drugs, alcohol. It got to the point where it affected his work and the environment we’re trying to create here. He was given several warnings about his conduct, but nothing changed.’

  ‘So you sacked him?’

  ‘We had no choice. Stuart needed professional help, but he wouldn’t listen. We had to let him go. He didn’t take it very well, of course.’

  Gregory paused to glance down at his scribbled notes. ‘This was in November of last year. Two months before Mr Goodwin was found dead at his family’s home in New Zealand from a suspected overdose.’

  Cantwell nodded solemnly. ‘I was greatly saddened to learn of Stuart’s death. Such a terrible waste of talent. But what has any of this got to do with me?’

  ‘I was just getting to that.’ Gregory laced his hands in front of him and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. ‘A week before he died, Mr Goodwin contacted me.’

  Cantwell felt the knife plunge deeper into his guts. ‘You met with Stuart?’

  ‘We spoke on the phone several times. Secure encrypted communications only. Mr Goodwin was very concerned that he was being watched and felt quite sure that people were monitoring his email and messages.’

  Cantwell shifted. ‘I wasn’t aware that you two knew each other.’

  ‘We didn’t. Mr Goodwin reached out to me after reading some of my work. He said he had information he wanted to share, and he felt that I was someone he could trust.’

  ‘I see.’ Cantwell coughed. ‘What did Stuart tell you, exactly?’

  ‘I won’t go into specifics right now. You’ve already seen the broad outline of Mr Goodwin’s claims.’

  A thin smile played out on Cantwell’s face. ‘That list of vague allegations you mentioned in your email? That hardly constitutes a cast-iron case.’

  ‘Mr Goodwin gave me a lot more than that. A hell of a lot more.’

  Cantwell sighed. ‘Look, Stuart was deeply paranoid. The chap was prone to delusional episodes as a result of long-term substance abuse. He’s hardly a reliable witness. I suggest that anything he has told you should be taken with a great big pinch of salt.’

  ‘Actually, I found him to be highly convincing.’

  ‘Christ, Nick. Don’t tell me you’re taking anything he said seriously?’

  Gregory straightened up. ‘Some of Mr Goodwin’s claims initially struck me as outlandish. But he supplied me with dates, locations, names. Details that I was subsequently able to corroborate.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps you’d be so kind as to share them with me.’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. You can read about it all when the story goes live. All you need to know is that I have enough evidence to take this to my old contacts.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Would I have bothered reaching out to you unless I had something concrete?’

  He flashed a gap-toothed smile at Cantwell. The latter felt the knife twist inside his guts again, like a bayonet. ‘And I suppose you want me to comment on the ludicrous allegations you alluded to in your email? Is that it?’

  Gregory shrugged. ‘This is an opportunity for you to give your side of the story.’

  ‘But you can’t possibly think there’s even a grain of truth in what Stuart told you. It’s all fantasies. The product of a demented imagination. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘I know that Mr Goodwin was scared for his life when I last spoke to him. I know that he worked closely with you on a number of campaigns. He also told me that you had been recruiting a number of individuals to work on this particular project with you. Everything was on a need-to-know basis, according to Mr Goodwin.’

  ‘Ridiculous. Absurd.’

  ‘Well? Do you deny Mr Goodwin’s claims?’

  ‘Of course I bloody do.’ Cantwell threw up his arms in exasperation. ‘Special projects, secret conspiracies . . . really, Nick, I’m very disappointed. I thought you were better than that. Frankly I’m surprised that you’re even spending time on this piffle.’

  ‘So that’s a “no”, then? You’re denying everything?’

  Cantwell closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and composed himself. He tried a different approach. ‘Look,’ he said calmly. ‘This isn’t about me. I’m trying to do you a favour here.’

  Gregory raised an eyebrow in suspicion. ‘Really?’

  ‘Think about it. What will happen if you approach your old boss with some nonsense about a secret conspiracy, based on the spurious claims of a known drug addict? How do you think that will look? You’ll be laughed out of the building, for god’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not with what I’ve got.’

  ‘If you drop this claptrap story of yours, it might be to your benefit. I could give you a big news story. Something really
juicy. Something that isn’t based on lies.’

  ‘Bigger than what I’ve got from Mr Goodwin?’ Gregory chuckled. ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Perhaps we can come to some sort of financial arrangement, then.’

  Gregory stared at the consultant with widened eyes. A look of horror fused with outrage swept across his face. ‘Are you actually trying to bribe me, Julian?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that,’ Cantwell replied smoothly. He spread his fat hands. ‘I’m merely suggesting that I compensate you – very generously, I might add – for the time you’ve spent investigating this nonsense. In return, you agree to drop the article and pursue some more meaningful stories. We both get to move on with our lives.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your money.’

  ‘How about a job? I could have a word with my friend over at the Standard. I’m sure he could get you a gig over there.’

  Gregory shook his head firmly. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m not after a bribe.’

  ‘What do you want, then?’

  ‘Simple.’ Gregory stared hard at Cantwell, his eyes glowering with barely suppressed anger. ‘I want people to know the truth. I want the public to know what kind of a man you really are. That’s what I want.’

  ‘You’re making a big mistake, Nick.’

  Gregory raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Cantwell replied. ‘I’m simply pointing out that it’s in your best interest to walk away from this story of yours. That’s all. Now, perhaps if we discussed numbers, we might come to an agreement—’

  Gregory raised a hand, cutting him off. ‘Save your breath. You can’t buy your way out of this one, Julian. Not this time. This story is going to get published, whether you like it or not. The world is going to find out what you’ve been up to. And nothing you can offer me – nothing – can change that. So take your offer and shove it.’

  The journalist sat back, bristling with rage. Silence passed between the two men for a beat. Cantwell exhaled and smiled sadly. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘That’s a great shame. I had really hoped we could come to an understanding today.’

  ‘Oh, I think we have. Just not the one you were looking for.’

  ‘Pity.’ Cantwell stood up, signifying an end to the meeting. ‘Thank you for coming in, Nick. I’m sorry this wasn’t more productive.’

  His friendly, courteous manner evidently took Gregory by surprise. For a moment the guy just sat there, dumbfounded, looking at Cantwell with a bemused expression, a deep groove forming above his brow. Cantwell tapped his watch.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to make a phone call. So, unless there’s anything else I can help you with . . .?’

  Gregory snapped out of his shock, then shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no. I’ve got everything I need.’

  He eased out of his chair, stuffed his belongings into the tattered leather man bag he’d brought along with him and pocketed his phone. Cantwell ushered him out of the conference room and paused briefly just outside the doorway, patting Gregory on the back. As if he was bidding goodbye to a dear old friend.

  ‘Elsie will show you out. Thanks again for coming, old chap. It’s always a pleasure to see you.’

  ‘Er, right. Yes.’ Gregory was still staring at him in puzzlement. Like a patient in a clinic, trying to make sense of a Rorschach card. Cantwell smiled.

  ‘Best of luck, Nick. Really. I mean it.’

  He turned and beckoned over Elsie from her desk. She strode over, smiled at Gregory and escorted him back down the grey-walled corridor, towards the main reception area.

  Gregory hurried along after her, pausing to glance back quizzically at Cantwell. He wore a look on his face like a participant on stage at a magic show, trying to work out how he’d been tricked. Cantwell gave him a cheerful wave.

  A few moments later, Elise led the journalist out through the main doors, towards the bank of lifts in the hallway. Cantwell watched him disappear from view, then dug out his phone from his inside jacket pocket.

  He swiped to unlock, swiped twice to the left and tapped open an app called HideMyTracks. Cantwell used it whenever he wanted to communicate in secret. The app essentially converted his smartphone into a burner mobile, creating a string of temporary phone numbers he could delete as soon as he was finished with them. He wasn’t sure how it worked – Cantwell was hopeless when it came to technology – but the principle was broadly the same as using a pre-paid phone to call someone. It was a way of sending encrypted messages without leaving any trace of the text or its contents.

  Which was important in this situation.

  Absolutely vital, in fact.

  He punched in a six-digit pin code to unlock the app, opened a Hidden Contacts list, selected the only number on the screen and typed out a short message.

  He’s leaving. On his way down now.

  Cantwell hit send. Then he waited.

  The message, he knew, would automatically self-destruct within ten seconds of being viewed, wiping it from both users’ phones. The number he had messaged wouldn’t show up on his phone bill, and no one would ever be able to tell that he had sent a text to it.

  There was a pause of maybe eight or nine seconds. Then his phone buzzed with a new message from the other person. A one-word response.

  And?

  Cantwell wrote a hasty reply, fat fingers dancing over the screen.

  Don’t worry. He doesn’t suspect a thing.

  There was another short wait. A few seconds later, Cantwell’s phone trilled again. A second message popped up on the screen.

  Good work. Stay there. Will let you know when it’s done.

  Thirty seconds later, Nick Gregory emerged from Kimberly House into the washed-out greyness of a Monday afternoon in London in late March.

  He felt a sort of nervous excitement. And relief. As far as he could tell, the meeting had gone quite well. He had guessed that Cantwell would try to deny everything, of course. Nothing unusual about that. But the clumsy attempt to bribe Gregory into killing the story had been an unexpected development. But also welcome.

  Because it told him that Cantwell was desperate.

  Desperate to bury the story.

  Which meant that the guy had something to hide.

  Gregory smiled to himself. At first, he hadn’t been too sure about the allegations. The conspiracy Stuart Goodwin had outlined had seemed too staggeringly vast in scope to be true. Even as he uncovered more evidence, that tiny voice of doubt had remained, niggling away at him.

  Is this really true?

  But now he knew for certain. Julian Cantwell was lying.

  Nick Gregory was going to break the story of the century.

  Better than that, he would redeem his own reputation in the process. The plot he had uncovered was shocking in its breadth and ambition. Gregory would be forever known as the intrepid journalist who had exposed the greatest conspiracy of recent times.

  He paused outside the entrance and glanced round, looking for somewhere to set up his laptop and make notes from his meeting while it was still fresh in his mind. Cantwell’s office was located midway down a tree-lined side street, on a one-way system running south to north. Directly opposite Kimberly House stood a parade of shops and a row of redbrick flats, with a faded Edwardian charm. A hundred metres to the north, at Gregory’s three o’clock, there was a budget hotel and a concrete block of flats. To his left, a hundred metres away to the south, a Greek cafe and a pub with a green-tiled exterior, with a long line of cars parked along the side of the road.

  At half past two in the afternoon, the street was practically deserted. Which wasn’t a surprise. Fitzrovia wasn’t Green Park, or London Bridge, or Tower Hill. There weren’t many tourist attractions in this corner of the city. It was a patchwork neighbourhood of student housing, small-sized companies, old-man boozers and fancy restaurants. The few people who worked around here were probably hunched over their desks, slowly losing the will to live.

  There
was an overweight guy outside the betting shop on the other side of the road, sucking on a cigarette. Ten metres to the north, at Gregory’s one o’clock, he spotted a middle-aged guy fiddling with the chain lock on his bicycle. He wore an orange waterproof jacket and black jeans. A pair of wireless buds jutted out of his ears. Further along, twenty metres away, a jogger was going through a warm-up routine. A short, barrel-chested guy dressed in a loose-fitting T-shirt, gym shorts and a baseball cap. His hands were planted against a lamp post, with one of his legs stretched behind him. He looked like he was trying to push a boulder up a hill.

  From a distance, the guy didn’t look much like a runner, thought Gregory. He had the physique of a professional wrestler. His muscles bulged through his T-shirt like basketballs in a sack.

  Gregory turned left and set off down the side street, heading south. Away from the jogger and the cyclist. Towards the cafe and the pub on the corner of the street. He would find a table at the Greek cafe. Set up his laptop there. Make his notes.

  Then he’d call one of his old editors and arrange a meeting. He would have to move fast, though. Cantwell would almost certainly try to block publication. The sooner Gregory could sell the story, the less time Cantwell had to prepare his defence.

  Life had been a struggle for the past two years, but once this story broke, everything was going to change. The editors of all the major dailies would be fighting to sign him up. There would be lucrative offers to write books. The Americans would be interested as well, no doubt. Maybe he’d get a spot as an analyst on one of the cable news channels over there. Earning the big bucks.

  Nick Gregory smiled to himself again.

  Life had been shitty. But it was about to get a whole lot better.

  A hundred metres to the south, the driver sat behind the wheel of the grey rental van and watched the target emerge from the building.

  There were two of them on the team, the driver and the guy in the jogging gear. The driver was the bigger of the two. In his younger years his body had been pure muscle, but now everything was covered in a layer of fat. His belly protruded, straining against his Gore-Tex leather jacket. His legs were squeezed tightly into his waterproof trousers. The extra-large black leather gloves he wore barely fitted around his thick hands.