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  Steve shook his head as he ducked out of the room. He pulled the door to but he left it open by three or four inches as if he had just said goodnight to a child and wanted to make sure he would be able to hear them if they cried. Then he went to finish checking the flat.

  The fire escape door was half timber, half glass. Not the most substantial of doors but the lock was solid; no one was getting through there without making one hell of a racket. That would be warning enough.

  Steve found a second bedroom to the rear of the building. Then he went to the bathroom before checking the final room in the flat, a third bedroom opposite the phone in the hall.

  Feeling like he could fall asleep on his feet Steve flicked on the light in the room. Despite his exhaustion the vision that greeted him brought him back to startled wakefulness.

  *

  Lying in his bed, his head resting on the deep feather pillow, Psimon opened his eyes.

  *

  Steve stared in disbelief at the far wall of Psimon’s ‘spare room’. It was like the scene from a serial killer movie. Only in this case the obsessive psycho was in fact an obsessive psychic. The wall was covered with information: newspaper cuttings, photographs, diagrams, maps, computer-printed sheets and hand-written notes on small pieces of fluorescent paper; the whole thing haphazardly tied together with interconnecting lines of masking tape and permanent black marker. Some of the lines had been scribbled out or redirected and many of them pointed to nothing at all, or in other cases to a frenzied hatching of frustrated marks. And behind it all, like some kind of macabre wallpaper, were newspaper cuttings chronicling horrific murders going back more than a decade.

  Captivated, Steve moved closer to the wall.

  Far to the left, where the wall was almost clear, was a photograph of what he took to be Psimon’s parents. There was something of each of them in Psimon’s pleasant features. From this unassuming photograph the lines expanded, the continuum unfolding to cover the entire wall. And then it struck Steve. This was not the depiction of a mind in turmoil; this was a planning wall. The army used the same kind of thing when planning an operation; simplified, more efficient and far, far neater but essentially the same.

  There were hundreds of names; most of them crossed out. There were maps of Manchester, of Fort Lauderdale in Florida and even an Ordnance Survey map of Alderley Edge, where he and Psimon had met for the first time. There were flight schedules, and receipts for tickets. There were articles on the James Randi Foundation and the million-dollar challenge. And, more alarming to Steve’s mind, there were articles on the structure of MI5 with tables of hierarchy showing the names of employees. Leaning in more closely Steve saw one name outlined in red…

  Richard Chatham, International Liaison for National Security

  Beneath this name was pinned a return ticket to London and beside it a large, assertive tick.

  As Steve’s eyes continued to scan the wall he came to pages on nuclear submarines from Jane’s Defence Weekly, a publication produced by the renowned authority on the armed forces of the world. There were more detailed articles taken from subscriptions to Jane’s exclusive information packs, information that governments used to plan their defence strategies. Subscription to such material cost thousands of pounds. And then there were obscure technical diagrams of electrical circuits, ballast systems and even the nuclear reactors at the heart of the subs; diagrams of such detail that they were way beyond the reach of even Jane’s much vaunted analysts. And within these diagrams several discreet components had been circled in red; inlet valves, temperature gauges and electrical circuits.

  Steve traced his finger outwards from these diagrams to promotional photographs of nuclear submarines cutting through anonymous swathes of ocean. Two submarines were featured. The USS Virginia, a US Navy attack sub, and the HMS Vigilant, a Vanguard class ballistic missile submarine from the British Royal Navy. Beside the subs were small photographs of men in naval uniform and beneath each was a name, location, date and time.

  Commander Douglas Scott, Manchester Airport, Wednesday March 4th, 6 - 7.00pm

  Captain Philip Kern, Orlando International Airport, Thursday March 5th, 7.45 for 8.00am EST (cutting it fine).

  ‘Huh,’ exclaimed Steve quietly, recognising the two men and seeing that the dates and times coincided with their flights to Florida. And then he realised; meeting up with these two submarine captains was the real reason for their transatlantic jaunt. Could it be that taking the challenge at the Randi Foundation had been nothing more than a side-show, something to do while they were there? But what was the significance? Why was it so important to make contact with these two men?

  He followed the lines radiating from these pictures to a small, intense knot of information. Bootle Street, one of the notes read, and beneath it a list of names:

  Chief Constable David McCormack

  Admiral Joseph Grant (watch this tosser!)

  Vice Admiral Edwin T. Fallon

  Mr Chatham

  The lines radiating from here were fewer. Only one thread seemed to have a coherent endpoint; it lead to an advertisement cut from a newspaper…

  CHALLENGE THE PSYCHICS… An open debate

  And from here there was nothing… lines leading to empty patches of wall. Masking tape hanging in crumpled ringlets. Dense scribbled blocks of permanent marker and other areas where any writing had been scratched from the wall with such force that the wallpaper was torn and the scrape marks gouged deep into the underlying plaster. Steve looked more closely at one of these obliterated scribblings where the same sentence seemed to have been written over and over before being scrawled out.

  S##v# ##st k### m#

  Ste#e #ust #il# me

  ###ve mu## ki## ##

  With a growing sense of dread Steve saw what had been written there.

  Steve must kill me

  Steve must kill me

  Steve must kill me

  Feeling nauseous and light-headed Steve stumbled back from the wall. This was all becoming too much for him. He felt that he was living through someone else’s nightmare and he could no longer distinguish what was real from what was not. How long had it taken to compile this information? What did it mean? What was it for? What did any of it have to do with him?

  Standing with his back against the doorframe he fumbled for the light switch as stark newspaper headlines stared back at him from across the empty room.

  Torture… Missing… Mutilated… Psychiatrist Found Dead… Torture… Missing…

  Steve felt an unpleasant sensation of panic crawling in his guts and he steeled his mind against it. Finally he stared defiantly at the wall before turning off the light with a decisive flick of the switch. He was about to leave the room when he noticed a small square of fluorescent orange paper lying on the table beside the door. With a deep sense of apprehension Steve reached down and turned the piece of paper over…

  Steve Brennus

  Mobile - 0774 0673394

  Steve’s fist closed around the note. He crushed it to a small tight ball and tossed it aside. Then, feeling more confused and frightened than he ever had in his life, he went to find the half-finished bottle of brandy.

  *

  Lying in his bed, his head resting on the deep feather pillow, Psimon closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday March 5th

  Chancellor of the Exchequer, John Shackleton, poured himself a second cup of coffee and finished off the last of his croissant. With a relieved sigh he pushed the pile of newspapers aside. There was nothing in today’s headlines that would require his presence in the office today. In fact he was free until his meeting with the French President tomorrow afternoon. It was Saturday morning, his wife had taken the boys to their respective rugby matches and the Chancellor was enjoying a rare moment’s peace.

  He opened up his laptop and logged on to the LSE website, idly scrolling through the pages of financial data and business news from around the world. He went to th
e Investor Centre and before clicking on ‘Market News’ his attention was drawn to the tables showing the top ten risers and fallers of the day.

  ‘Huh,’ he exclaimed with mild interest when he noticed that the top three performers had all risen by the same 13.39%.

  ‘That happened just recently,’ he seemed to remember but, as his eyes moved down the list, it suddenly struck him. This had not happened before but he had seen this before; seen these figures before…

  The list went on but the Chancellor had risen suddenly from the table and was rifling through the mass of notes, telephone numbers and ‘to do’ lists on the family’s notice board beside the kitchen door. His wife had stuck it up here, he was certain of it. But where the hell was it now?

  There it was…

  There, under a damned rugby newsletter… a folded piece of A4 paper with the words, A bit of forecasting fun !, written on the front. Please keep until Saturday 12th of March.

  The Chancellor recalled being given the piece of paper at a charity function in Manchester almost five weeks ago. He remembered the young man with his shy, pleasant smile and piercing grey eyes.

  ‘I will donate a thousand pounds if you will keep this to hand for the next five weeks,’ the young man had said.

  The Chancellor had glanced down at what was written on the paper. It was a list of companies and their share prices, a forecaster’s guess at the top ten risers and fallers.

  ‘You have a deal,’ the Chancellor said with a manufactured smile. But…

  ‘No,’ the young man said as if he knew that the Chancellor had not taken him seriously. ‘I want your word that you will do as you say.’

  The Chancellor looked more closely at the sincere young man and nodded.

  ‘Five weeks,’ he said.

  The young man smiled. He produced a cheque from his inside pocket and handed it to one of the nearby volunteers who was only too happy to take his cash.

  ‘What’s this?’ the Chancellor’s wife had asked the following morning when she was hanging up his jacket.

  ‘Just something I was given at the dinner last night.’

  ‘Can I bin it?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Chancellor had said. Then, ‘No!’ he amended.

  His wife had raised her eyebrows and stood there hovering.

  ‘Just stick it on the pin-board... I’ll hang on to it for a while.’

  The Chancellor brought the piece of paper back to the table and held it up beside his computer screen.

  There were twenty companies listed; ten risers and ten fallers, and by the time the Chancellor reached the end of the list his hand was shaking so much that he struggled to read the rest of what was written there.

  Figures for Saturday March 7th, 9.30am.

  For more information contact Richard Chatham, MI5

  Yours truly...

  The Chancellor reached for his mobile phone. ‘Kirsty?’ he said when his call was finally answered.

  ‘Yes, sir? I didn’t ex…’ began the Chancellor’s chief personal aid.

  ‘Kirsty,’ the Chancellor said, an audible tremor in his voice. ‘Get me the number for MI5. And find out if there’s someone there by the name of Richard Chatham. Then contact Lesley Stevens in Camp David. Tell him I need to speak with the Prime Minister immediately.’

  Chapter 19

  Richard Chatham had just arrived in the office when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello Mr Chatham,’ said the voice on the line with familiar courtesy. ‘Working the weekend again?’

  ‘Hello Psimon,’ said Chatham. ‘How was Florida?’

  ‘Sunny,’ replied Psimon. The smile in his voice acknowledging Chatham’s awareness of his movements.

  ‘A welcome change from the grey skies of Manchester I would have thought,’ said Chatham.

  ‘Quite so,’ replied Psimon.

  ‘A successful trip?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ asked Psimon with mock surprise.

  ‘I didn’t think it necessary to follow you abroad,’ said Chatham.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You initiated contact,’ explained Chatham. ‘Logic suggested that you were unlikely to disappear.’

  ‘Very trusting for someone in your position,’ said Psimon.

  Chatham gave a small laugh.

  ‘And if you did vanish…’ he asked, ‘would we find you?’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon with simple honesty.

  ‘As I thought,’ said Chatham.

  There was a pause in the conversation before Chatham spoke again.

  ‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ he said with gentle sincerity.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Psimon and Chatham could hear the emotion in his voice. But even with that aside there was a difference in Psimon’s tone. He sounded flatter, more subdued than he had during their previous conversations.

  ‘Is Mr Brennus still with you?’ asked Chatham.

  ‘He is.’

  Chatham nodded. He had been more than a little surprised to hear that Psimon had been travelling with a former member of the SAS. A soldier, now retired but with a distinguished service record. It cast Psimon in an altogether different light. It suggested that he might be more than a maverick individual acting alone; he might be part of a larger network. Chatham did not believe this to be the case but all possible scenarios had to be considered.

  ‘And what about the immunity that we discussed?’ asked Psimon. ‘Is it in place?’

  ‘I have prepared the necessary paperwork,’ said Chatham looking at the black leather folder on his desk. ‘But ratifying it is an altogether different matter. I don’t think you understand…’

  ‘Just make sure you have it with you for the meeting,’ interrupted Psimon.

  ‘The meeting…’ echoed Chatham warily.

  ‘Yes, Mr Chatham. I would like you there in person. In fact,’ Psimon went on, ‘I insist on it.’

  ‘So, you’re coming in?’ asked Chatham sitting up suddenly in his chair.

  ‘Not exactly,’ replied Psimon. ‘Let’s just say I’m setting the ground rules for reasonable dialogue.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ protested Chatham, the frustration of always feeling one step behind was beginning to get to him.

  ‘You will, Mr Chatham,’ replied Psimon. ‘I promise… you will.’

  ‘But when?’ pressed Chatham, sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close.

  ‘Soon,’ said Psimon. ‘Very soon.’

  Chatham sighed with frustration

  ‘For now,’ Psimon added in a conciliatory tone, ‘I think you have another call coming through.’

  Chatham glanced at the phone on his desk. The incoming call light had just started to flash urgently.

  ‘Until our meeting then…’ said Psimon. ‘Goodbye Mr Chatham.’

  And the line went dead.

  Chapter 20

  Steve became aware of daylight and the smell of coffee. He opened his eyes. A bright wedge of sunlight cut across the room, angling in through the deep bay window. He straightened himself up in the chair, pushed away the duvet and tucked in the extending leg support that had allowed him to recline in reasonable comfort. In fact, he had slept pretty damned well and pretty damned long, judging by the height of the sun.

  ‘Who are you phoning now?’ he asked, trying to assuage the dryness in his mouth.

  ‘Just a friend.’

  Psimon was sitting across the room on the window seat that ran round the inside of the bay.

  ‘It’s Saturday morning…’ said Steve, leaning forward and running his hands vigorously through his hair. ‘Thought you might be calling in your apologies to the psychic’s coffee morning.’

  Psimon laughed.

  ‘Did that earlier,’ he said. ‘But they said I needn’t have bothered. They already…’

  ‘Knew,’ finished Steve. ‘Yeh… it was my joke.’ His fingers ceased their tousling and began to focus on his temples, sooth
ing a familiar and unwelcome ache.

  ‘God, I could do with a coffee.’

  Psimon nodded towards the corner of Steve’s chair.

  Steve glanced down to see a mug of coffee sitting on the carpet beside him. He reached down. It was still hot.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Steve took a long mouth-burning gulp and let out a satisfied sigh. His mind suddenly flashed back to the unsettling events of the previous night and a shudder ran through his body. But things always look different in the morning. Few demons can tolerate the bright reality of morning sunlight. He looked over at Psimon who had put away his mobile phone and retrieved his own cup from the windowsill. Once again the bruising on his face and hands had faded remarkably quickly and Psimon showed little sign of the trauma that he had suffered. There was just an intangible fragility and a certain nervousness that Steve would never have picked up on had he not lived with Psimon for the last few days.

  ‘There is a spare bed,’ said Psimon, looking at Steve’s sleep-rumpled clothes. He had been touched when he saw that Steve had pulled the reclining armchair over to the door, where he could sleep within sight of Psimon’s room just across the hall.

  ‘Didn’t want to sleep too well,’ said Steve rising from the chair.

  He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched his arms up high, his shoulders making unpleasant popping sounds as he eased the stiffness from his body.

  ‘So what improbable delights do you have planned for us today?’ he asked.

  The sudden seriousness of Psimon’s expression made Steve fear the worst, and yet…

  ‘I thought we might start with an early lunch,’ Psimon said.

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ said Steve warily. ‘Do I have time for a shower?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Good,’ said Steve. ‘I’m starting to feel like a hobo in these clothes.’ Steve nudged the chair away from the door. ‘I’ve got more clothes in the car,’ he said. ‘Is it all right if I…’

  ‘Of course,’ said Psimon.