35
From the outside the safe house looked derelict, but inside, the building was clean but basic. The concrete floors, walls and ceilings were all painted white. Stairs leading from the entrance door led up to two interrogation rooms situated behind closed steel doors on either side of the stairwell.
The interrogation rooms were bare, apart from a couple of chairs, a desk and a wooden pallet. In one corner was an exposed toilet.
The building was not designated purely as a safe house for interrogation; it could also double up as an FOB. The hard-standing outside, with sufficient space to land a helicopter, meant it could be used to house Special Forces in the event of a terrorist incident in the area.
The entire compound was protected by a sophisticated security system. Along the mud access track, UGSs were buried at hundred-metre intervals. Their warning sensors could be set for vehicles or for people. Those in the track were set for vehicles; the lighter setting could easily lead to them being tripped by forest wildlife.
More UGSs were buried at fifty-metre intervals in the ditch running alongside the compound. These were set for humans: no deer would walk the length of the ditch, only someone using it as cover to get close to the house.
The UGS wiring was also buried and ran back to a monitoring system in the ground-floor, left-hand room of the house. The room was equipped with little else – just a sink, a kettle, portable electric heaters, an electric student hob and camp beds. The room opposite had further camp beds, rolled up, and a shower and toilet.
Fran's team were in this room. Jimmy was preparing an instant meal of Pot Noodles, sliced bread and cheap, thin ham, to be followed by muesli bars.
Fincham and Deveraux were in the room opposite.
Jimmy poured boiling water onto the Pot Noodles just as the door opened and Fincham and Deveraux appeared.
'Grub's up, sir,' said Jimmy to Fincham. 'Sure we can't tempt you to one of these? We usually throw in a dollop of brown sauce and some Branston pickle to spice them up a bit.'
Fincham made little attempt to disguise his look of distaste. 'Thank you, but no. I'll eat later in London.'
'Won't be anything like this though, sir.'
Fran and Mick were sitting on camp beds. They shared a smile. Everyone knew exactly how uncomfortable their boss was in these surroundings and Fran couldn't resist joining in the wind-up. 'There's extra camp beds in the other room, sir. You could always doss down with us if you'd rather stay.'
The suggestion was ignored. 'I'll see Watts now. Brian, bring some of that . . . food. We won't starve our guest to death.'
Brian grabbed one of the Pot Noodles and followed Fincham up the stairs, winking at Deveraux as he passed.
Fergus was in the room to the left of the stairs. Mick and Fran had enjoyed themselves interrogating him and he wasn't a pretty sight. His face was a swollen, bloodied mess. Blood that hadn't dried into his stubble had dripped over his shirt and onto the floor. His lips were split and fresh blood ran from his nose into his mouth. He was blindfolded with photographic blackout material and he wore no shoes. Both wrists were plasticuffed to the pallet and his hands were swollen where the cuffs had cut into the skin.
Fergus heard footsteps on the stairs and the key turning in the lock before the door opened. He felt his legs being dragged sideways and back towards his body and his feet were plasticuffed to the pallet. Only then did Brian free his hands and rip the blackout material away from his eyes. Fergus flinched and then squeezed his eyes tightly together; the glare of the fluorescent light was dazzling.
The door closed and Fergus heard footsteps going back down the stairs. Slowly he opened his eyes. As they gradually adjusted to the light, a figure sitting on a chair a metre away came into focus.
Fergus and Fincham were face to face for the first time in years.
'It's been a long time,' said Fincham quietly.
Speech came painfully for Fergus. 'Not long enough.'
Fincham indicated the steaming Pot Noodle on the floor next to Fergus. 'My colleagues assure me that it is edible.'
Fergus knew the tactics. Fincham in control, relaxed, sitting back in the chair, watching silently while he dug pathetically at the food with his fingers. All meant to increase his sense of despair and humiliation. But he didn't care. He was hungry, despite the beating he'd taken, and he knew he had to eat and keep his strength up to have any chance of survival.
Fighting back the pain as the hot spices burned into the cuts on his lips, Fergus swallowed the food as quickly as he could, just in case Fincham chose to kick it away and get on with the interrogation. Fincham watched in silence as Fergus tipped the container up to his mouth to make sure every last scrap went down his neck.
At last Fincham leaned forward in his chair. 'I'm going to ask you this just once. Who else knew you were operating as a K?'
'Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you,' said Fergus through a mouthful of noodles. He forced a smile. 'Maybe there are others. You'll have to sweat it out, Fincham, like I have for all these years.'
The room smelled stale and fetid. Fincham got up and walked to the window. The metal frame would open only a few centimetres before hitting the steel mesh fitted on the outside. But Fincham needed what fresh air he could get. The smell of blood offended him just as much as the sight of it. He stared through the mesh towards the forest. 'You're going to die, Watts, you realize that, don't you?'
When Fergus didn't reply Fincham continued without looking back. 'Of course I should have had you killed in Colombia, but after you'd ruined my little operation I quite enjoyed the thought of you rotting away in squalor. And I didn't anticipate the jailbreak. That was remiss of me.'
'You won't have the balls to kill me yourself, Fincham,' said Fergus, spitting blood and noodles from his mouth. 'But before your trained monkeys do it, I'll make sure they know what you really did in Colombia.'
Fincham took a deep breath of fresh air, turned away from the window and went back to the chair. 'The last desperate ramblings of a man who knows he's about die and will say anything to save his life. You'll be wasting your final breaths, Watts. But I am going to give you a chance.'
He saw Fergus squint at him through bruised and half-closed eyes. 'Oh no, Watts, not to live, your death is inevitable now. No, I'm going to give you the chance to not have to watch your grandson die.'
Fergus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 'You really are an evil, sadistic bastard, Fincham. But you won't find Danny, he's long gone.'
'Oh yes, I'll find him,' said Fincham calmly. 'Tomorrow, or the next day. And he will have to be eliminated. But you won't have to watch, Watts, not if you tell me what I need to know.'
He stood up. 'Think about it. There was Meacher, and he's no longer a problem. Who else was there?'
When there was no response, Fincham glanced at his watch. 'I'm expected at the House for a reception. Goodnight, Watts. I'm sure my friends will look after you.'
He left without looking back. A few minutes later the Mercedes purred into life and Fincham drove away from the compound.
Fergus heard the clang of the gates as they were closed. He glanced towards the window, desperately hoping his grandson had followed his orders.