Secrets Never Die: Clare Woodbrook, #2

1

Friday, October 22nd, 1993

THE Red Lion Pub in London’s Parliament Street is not the place to plan a murder, but if you’re going to do it, you’d be wise to keep your voice down. It’s a three-minute walk from New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.

I’m not sure I agree with you, said the man leaning on the edge of the bar, its wooden rail providing a steadying influence during the third pint of the last forty-five minutes. Even hardened detectives need help occasionally.

What are you saying, Dougie? asked his former colleague, over the laughter, the chink of glasses, the scraping of bar stools on the wooden floor, and the general wall of conversation underpinning an atmosphere of bonhomie.

I’m saying, Neil, I don’t agree with you. Yes, you’ve got your celebrities and your God-knows-what, but you’ve got to admit, you must miss this. The absolute joy of nailing a bastard.

Neil Fearon put an arm round the shoulder of his former boss.

You know what I do miss? I miss my mates. You, Wardy, Cov, old Kenny Mason, God rest his soul. I don’t miss the hours, the politics. Twats dishing out orders. But I’m glad you messaged me, it’s great to see you again.

That was a lie. One of the primary reasons former Detective Sergeant Neil Fearon left the Force to set up his own security company was that he couldn’t abide working for Detective Inspector Dougie Compton. Or Detective Chief Inspector as he was now. But this wasn’t the time or place to revisit old grudges. Tonight was about celebrating the successful conclusion of a case that had baffled them all.

That was another lie. It hadn’t baffled them all, but the truth had been successfully buried and now the secret could be quietly left to die. In an unexpected development, someone had confessed to the most notorious celebrity murder of a generation. And for the dozen or so detectives in the corner of the Red Lion, it was a great excuse for a party. Or a time to start thinking you’d finally got away with it, depending on your perspective.

Neil left Dougie and made his way through the crowd, past DS Alex Ward, DS Nick Brooks, DCS Terry Handley, and the former senior investigating officer DCI Brian Dalton. Brian had long since retired, but was having a day out in London to join in the celebration. Neil nodded, said hello, promised to be back in a moment, and finally reached his destination, where DCI Graham March was trying to chat up two young female detectives. Neither of the women had been involved in the case, but the drinks were free and flowing.

Graham, you old fraud, he said, butting in. Still suspended?

March looked him up and down, then cracked a smile as recognition dawned.

Neil Fearon! I thought you were dead. How are things in the security game?

Going well. You should think about it.

Crossing to the dark side?

You’ve got all the skills. And rumour has it you might be looking for a new career.

March’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced.

You don’t want to believe what you read in the gutter press, he said, with more than a hint of a snarl.

Still, I’m surprised they let you in here.

You always were a funny fucker. Make yourself useful and get another beer in.

What are you having? Aside from a hard time with the ladies? Neil nodded in the direction of the two detectives, who had seized their opportunity to make a hasty retreat.

I was in there till you came along. The pair of them.

The weird thing is, I genuinely think you believe that. Pint of Pride, is it? ESB?

Anything wet. Dougie’s running a tab.

Neil nodded and made his way to the bar, chuckling to himself. Yes, there were things he missed. But, he thought as he edged his way to the front of the throng, there was even more he was glad he’d left behind.

2

Saturday, October 23rd, 1993

I’D made an effort. A new black dress. New black suede heels. I’d even spent more time than usual on my hair and make-up, but none of it had worked. I just wasn’t in the mood.

Wrapping my jacket around my shoulders, I headed out to the balcony. A cigarette wouldn’t fix things, but it would at least take them off my mind for a few glorious, indulgent moments.

I inhaled deeply, leaning on the stone balustrade, watching the retreating lights of a riverboat heading south on the Rhine. It was so peaceful. So calming. Normally.

My mind drifted, thinking of those I’d lost, and wondering if anything could ever be worth the pain.

A sudden increase in the volume of music and laughter snapped me back into reality. I didn’t turn immediately. Whoever had opened the door was welcome to join me. Everyone was an invited guest, and the balcony was big enough to share. But I wanted to savour my last moments of reflection before being dragged back into endless small talk.

You are Clare Woodbrook?

I blew smoke across the fields, then turned to find a staggeringly attractive blonde woman walking towards me with one hand extended, and two flutes of Champagne in the other. She looked stunning in an asymmetrical scarlet dress, with a cream faux fur stole to fend off the evening chill. I didn’t know if her jewellery was real or costume, but it sparkled in the glow of the wall lamp. Her shoes matched the dress and added at least another four inches to her height. I guessed at early thirties.

Iglika Lechkov, she said, as I accepted the handshake. I thought you might like one of these.

Iglika, of course, I smiled, accepting a flute, and immediately tried to put on my bravest of faces, while trying to hide my surprise. She was nothing like I’d imagined. My knowledge of Bulgaria was minimal, and expectations were heavily tainted by the thought of burly bodybuilders, with excessive facial hair. And that was just the women.

You are coming to see me in Sofia, she said, as she let go of my hand, then joined me leaning on the stonework.

I’m very much looking forward to it, and it’s great to meet you at last, I said.

And you. Her voice was captivating. Her English was excellent, with every word carefully enunciated, but with the edge of a deeply seductive accent. I was immediately impressed; maybe because I know how hard it is to master a language and speak it like a native. There is still a lot to discuss.

I nodded.

There is, but these events are strictly non-business. I imagine you’re staying the weekend?

I fly back on Monday.

Perfect. Maybe we can arrange some time tomorrow? I’d offer to take you for lunch but I’m not sure we’ll be awake in time. That made her smile. Maybe dinner, though? I’ll show you Koblenz. Unless you have something planned?

No, that would be wonderful, thank you.

Some of my tension lifted as I took a sip of the Champagne, then rolled my shoulders before turning back towards her and making eye contact.

Is this your first time here? I asked.

Yes, my first time ever at the Schloss, although I have wanted to come to one of the parties for a long time. I have heard they are ... loud.

I smiled.

Not so much loud as lively once the fun starts. The first one can be a shock.

I do not think I can be shocked. She winked and I felt an overwhelming maternal urge, even though I guessed we were a similar age. I didn’t think I was shockable either, until I’d witnessed true debauchery with a German twist.

How about you? she asked.

I’ve been living here since February so I’ve been to a few.

Ah yes. You were rescued in Cologne. I heard all about you.

That sounds ominous.

She smiled. It was infectious.

I am sure we have all done bad things in our own way, she said. The Blood Angel likes to recruit people with flaws.

Indeed.

I’d researched Iglika. She’d grown up under communism, in a family connected to the government, and had been heavily involved in the black market before the Iron Curtain came down. I expected she knew about my own history in art fraud, with a side order of execution – even though that was, as I’d proved over and over, in self-defence. Still, the past was the past, and we were now working for an organisation that was trying to do good, albeit in occasionally questionable ways. We just had to avoid being arrested for previous misdoings in the process.

Anders Hagström is here? she asked.

No, he doesn’t come to the parties. I’m not sure they’re his thing.

That is a shame. I would like to meet him.

You will, I’m sure. He’s due to turn up at some point tomorrow.

Anders was the closest we had to a boss, even though he was insistent that we were all equal. The real mastermind was the Blood Angel herself, a near-mythical former Stasi spy and femme fatale. Nobody knew if she really existed any more. Except me. She’d taken me under her wing in more ways than one, but there was no question of ever revealing the secret of her identity.

Iglika offered me a cigarette, then held out a gold lighter that matched the bangles on her wrist.

Something tells me you are not in the mood for a party, she said as I leaned in for a light. Was it that obvious?

Not really, I said, at last.

Because of what happened in Paris?

So she’d heard about that too.

I nodded.

It sounded heartbreaking, she continued, blowing smoke. Although I am told you were brave.

I shrugged.

I did what I had to do. I’d been trained, so it wasn’t really bravery, and the end result was the loss of a colleague.

I understand. She didn’t need to say any more. I think we both understood. We lived in a dangerous world. But losing someone I cared about, who’d put his own life on the line to rescue me, had hit me hard. Not least because I’d doubted his intentions until the moment he’d died.

I’m sure you’ll have fun tonight, though, I said. Don’t let my mood stop you enjoying yourself.

The mischievous smile returned, along with another wink.

I quite like the thought of a night of bad behaviour, she said.

You’re in the right place. Have you met anyone?

Not yet. Just the housekeeper and her husband this afternoon. Birgit and Walter. They are very friendly.

They’re lovely. Although Birgit keeps Walter well out of the way when the carnage begins.

She laughed.

She sounds sensible.

I looked at the burning tip of my cigarette.

We’ll finish these and I’ll take you in and introduce you to some people. I won’t know everyone, but there’ll be a few. The main thing is to remember that nothing that happens is ever discussed again.

I have heard there is cocaine.

Instinctively I was on alert, naturally suspicious that someone might be planning to expose us. But it passed a split second later. Nobody would be here unless they’d been heavily vetted – especially after a traitor in our midst had caused so much hurt just a few weeks before.

There’s anything you want, I said. Cocaine isn’t really my thing, but you should know, nobody is going to judge you. These events are deliberately hedonistic. Despite the Blood Angel name, nobody is particularly angelic. At least not in every respect.

I can imagine. She turned and leaned back on the balustrade, looking back towards the house. This is what I do not understand. The human race is supposed to be the most intelligent species on earth. And yet there is tiny evidence of it. We have wars and kill each other. We do things we know are bad for us. She lifted her cigarette and looked at it before taking one last drag and flicking it away into the darkness. Horses do not do that. Birds do not. Just us, and we are supposed to be the clever ones, but that cleverness comes with an urge to self-destruct.

It’s a good point, I said, hastily flicking my cigarette, too.

It is all about ego, she continued. We take risks because we want power. And yet when we achieve things we get bored, and we want to escape from ourselves.

Something was telling me that those who underestimated Iglika did so at their peril.

It was time to join the party. She put her arm through mine and we headed back inside.

The Schloss was a perfect venue for parties. It was a vast stone-built house that resembled a mini-castle, and hence the nickname. Even though the parties were nominally monthly, the previous one had been cancelled due to the events in Paris, so it was the first one since the end of August. As such, there were more people than normal. I didn’t try to count them, but guessed at around forty, spread around half a dozen ground floor rooms, plus however many more were down in the basement gym and pool complex, or already in one of the many bedrooms. Iglika and I were among the youngest, although there was a smattering of fit young men and gorgeous young women whom I suspected had been drafted in specifically for the occasion.

It was lively, with background beats overlaid with lots of laughter, and conversations in languages that reflected the disparate origins of our colleagues. As soon as our glasses were empty, someone appeared with a bottle of Champagne and refilled them. I introduced Iglika to about a dozen people and then left her to mingle while I headed to the kitchen in search of our elderly housekeeper.

Birgit was sitting at the large table, reading a novel. She looked up as I entered. I closed the door behind me.

Are you okay? she whispered, in perfect English, even though, as far as everyone else was concerned, she only spoke German. Nobody – apart from possibly Anders – knew her true role. Or her past as an elite spy and killing machine, and the fact that she saw everything: the silent hand guiding us all, hidden in plain sight. Also, by common consensus, her husband Walter was deaf, but I knew the truth there as well. They were all secrets I’d die to protect if they asked me to. Or at least put up a good fight.

I wasn’t sure how to answer, but I knew she’d see right through any attempt to add non-existent gloss.

I’m kind of okay, and kind of feeling a bit blue, I said, after a moment. I’m sure things will get better in time.

She put down her book, removed her reading glasses, then stood up and gave me a much-needed hug.

They will, she said, brushing the hair from my eyes, so she could look straight into them. Can I get you anything? More Champagne?

I smiled.

I think I’ve already had far too much, I said. These shoes were hard enough to walk in when I was sober. The best thing is probably to go to bed and leave everyone to have fun. I just wanted to come and say goodnight. And to say thank you again, for everything.

It’s me that should be thanking you. You keep me young.

I kissed her on the cheek and then headed back for one last glance at the party. Iglika was having an interesting time, in among a group of three men and two other women. She tried to beckon me to join them, but I shook my head, blew her a kiss, and headed for the stairs.

It wasn’t just the events of Paris. It was an awareness this was my new life, whether I liked it or not. It was a long way from the hustle and bustle of a busy daily newspaper office. I missed that. I missed the interaction, the deadlines, the humour, the social life. I missed my home. I missed England. I missed my former protégé Danny Churchill and his flatmate Anna Burgin. But tomorrow would be a new day, and while I might have a hangover, plenty of others would be feeling far worse.

I removed my make-up and headed to bed with a book, feeling a mixture of old, sensible and melancholy. My mind was still processing the memories of a fallen colleague. My last thought before falling asleep was that I would never let his passing be in vain.

3

Sunday, October 24th, 1993

THE morning after a party always felt strange. Although colleagues occasionally visited the Schloss while on business in the nearby cities of Frankfurt, Cologne and Düsseldorf, I was the only full-time resident – apart from Birgit and Walter – and I’d come to think of it as my private home. After a party, however, the evidence of other people’s excesses was everywhere, from the empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays, to the occasional mysterious stain on the furniture. The cleaning crew were excellent, though, and they’d have it back to normal long before the hardest-partying visitors surfaced to witness the mess they’d left behind.

Despite no longer having a personal trainer, I was determined to maintain my fitness, not least because I knew the cigarettes were working their hardest in the other direction. So, before breakfast I hit the pool for forty lengths, to try to blow away my headache.

It was partially successful, and a hot shower and couple of ibuprofens finished the job. By just after 10am, I headed to the kitchen in search of breakfast. Birgit was bustling around, working hard, but stopped to give me another hug. She told me to sit at the table and then delivered coffee, and a selection of delicious-looking pastries. Periodically, Walter appeared and took plates of food, juice and coffee upstairs to the bedrooms.

I was nearly finished when Iglika arrived, looking fragile and distinctly less polished than the night before. She put her hand over her face when she saw me, then started to laugh, before wincing.

You could have warned me, she said with something approaching a smile. Her voice still had the delicious accent, but it was now overlaid with a seductive throatiness.

Good night, was it? I asked, pulling out a chair for her.

I think so. I ... Oh God. Bits of it are coming back to me.

It certainly sounds like a good night, then. I fought hard to suppress a chuckle but failed.

I seem to remember doing things I have never done before and which even now I am not sure are physically possible. She rested her elbows on the table then dropped her head into her hands with a groan.

Don’t worry about it, I said. We all have needs. We all deserve to have fun. I turned to Birgit and added I’ve got a patient for you in German, which made Birgit smile, and Iglika glance up as though I’d said something astonishing. I expect it was the shock of an English person actually speaking another language.

I arranged to meet Iglika in the drawing room at noon and then left Birgit to work her magic. There was plenty to do. I was due to fly to Sofia in two days’ time, according to the current plan, and homework was required, both on the city itself, and in terms of what I was likely to find when I got there.

Iglika was to be my guide, but I was responsible for brokering deals with factory owners who’d inherited the means of production in the post-communist age, but had no idea how to make a profit. It was a fantastic opportunity to act as an intermediary between the Bulgarian industrialists and rich western investors who were looking for new opportunities in the post-perestroika east. For a hefty commission, obviously. That said, I knew there would be challenges. Not least from criminal gangs who wanted to muscle in on the same golden goose.

I wasn’t expecting trouble, at least not on the first visit, but experience suggested it was never far away. If I came up against a threat of violence, it was my responsibility to nullify it with minimal fuss, and the minimum amount of evidence left behind. I’d come a long way from the investigative journalist who lapsed into criminality in a moment of madness. Preparation was potentially a life-saver, especially when I couldn’t rely on the police to help me. I was on the wanted list in more countries than I dared to count.

My mobile phone burst into life while I was midway through reading a CompuServe article about Sofia’s various styles of architecture.

Anders, I said, with genuine joy in my voice. How are things? Are you still coming to see us?

I am, but it won’t be till later this evening now. I never tired of his German accent, even if it wasn’t as sexy as Iglika’s Bulgarian one. I hope that’s okay.

Of course.

Anders Hagström was an elder statesman who automatically engendered respect. Like all of us, he’d done bad things, but his were for the most noble of reasons. He’d suffered horrors I could barely imagine. His parents were killed when he was young, on the night the British Royal Air Force dropped three thousand tonnes of bombs on his home city of Dresden, during the Second World War. Then further tragedy struck when his wife and children were killed trying to escape from East Germany during the darkest days of the communist era. Despite that, and the trauma that followed, he was now a voice of sanity within the Blood Angel organisation.

Iglika is here and desperate to meet you, I said. I’d love you to join us for dinner if you’re here in time. I’m taking her into town.

No, you two have fun. It may be close to ten by the time I get there.

Is everything okay?

Everything is fine. Was his hesitation real or did I imagine it? We can discuss it later.

Something in his tone was unsettling, but it was pointless asking him to elaborate on the phone.

We ended the call and I returned to CompuServe. But a moment later my phone rang again. Expecting Anders had forgotten something, I didn’t look at the number before hitting the button to connect the call.

It was a careless mistake. Because I recognised the voice at the other end of the line as soon as he said my name.

4

ALTHOUGH Detective Superintendent Joe Leyland was the