Hunted (19 page)

Unless the noise was the point.

It was like the way we’d entered the house. I’d come in through the window, alone, drawing attention away from the others.

If you want to cover your tracks, lay a false trail.

Maybe the intruder hadn’t been looking for either the code
or
the contents of the safe. Maybe they were trying to stop
me
finding something. Maybe all this mess was just a way of distracting my attention from what they’d really been looking into.

I stood up. What would someone want to stop me from finding?

The answer was obvious. The truth about my parents’ murderer.

Mom had been convinced that Bookman was the killer. But suppose she’d been wrong? Suppose the murderer was another person entirely . . . someone from outside the Hub, maybe . . . someone who just
knew
Bookman?

That would make more sense. After all, Geri had been adamant that there was no reason for Bookman to kill my dad. It was, as she’d said, in the government’s interests to have him alive . . . to coax him back to work on his Medusa gene research.

I raced outside. Ketty was still explaining what had happened to Bookman. I grabbed the phone off her.

‘Geri?’ I said breathlessly.

‘Dylan?’ Her voice was tight with impatience. ‘What the hell are you doing? I
told
you I would get you Bookman’s address. We could have done this together instead of you barging in and nearly getting yourselves killed—’

‘Who else could have killed my dad?’ I blurted out. ‘Apart from Bookman, I mean?’

Geri tutted. ‘For goodness’ sake, dear. I’ve told you a million times . . . your father died in an accident. Now I absolutely insist the four of you come back here straight away. I’ll send the police to pick you up.’

There was a clattering on the other end of the line. The familiar sound of Alex laying out the plates on the cottage table. ‘I’m on the phone, Alex,’ Geri said tersely, presumably in response to the noise.

I sighed. Clearly, Geri was going to be of no use.

‘Don’t send the police,’ I said. ‘We’ll make our own way home.’

I shoved the phone back at Ketty and wandered back into the room with the open safe.

If this messed-up room was a false trail, then there must be some clue to my parents’ murder elsewhere in the house.

I wandered into the corridor again. Nico was speaking to Geri, now. I could hear him saying that we would come back to the Lake District cottage as soon as we left here. As agreed, he didn’t mention that Harry and Laura had been helping us. None of us wanted to get them into trouble with Geri.

Ed glanced at me as I passed, but I paid him no attention. I strode along the corridor, taking a look at each room in turn.

Jeez
, they were all as neat and tidy as each other – a long series of spare rooms. Some with beds and wardrobes, others virtually empty. And this was just one corridor of a huge, three-storey house.

To search it thoroughly would be impossible. Laura and Harry wouldn’t wait outside forever. And, anyway, Geri was going to have the police round to pick us up before you could say ‘crime scene’.

I reached the landing.

Think, Dylan, think.

If the open safe was a red herring, then the information the intruder hadn’t wanted me to see must be in a completely different room.

I thought back to the sequence of sounds we’d heard. The door slamming that prompted Nico and me to investigate had been followed within twenty seconds by the footsteps we’d heard coming from the first-floor corridor – pretty much where I was standing right now.

I looked across the landing to the corridor that led off in the opposite direction. The slamming door had come from there.

I set off at a jog, counting the seconds off under my breath.

One Mississippi

Two Mississippi

Three Mississippi

After twenty beats, I’d reached the end of the corridor and a single shut door. It was heavy – an internal fire door – and would certainly make a big noise if it was left to slam shut. My heart in my mouth, I opened it.

There was nothing special inside. Some kind of library with long rows of bookshelves built against every spare centimetre of wall. Half were covered in books, the other half laden with bulky files.

I looked around. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed.

I crossed the room and examined the bookshelves more closely. Like everything else in the house, they were neat and ordered.

Except . . . it wasn’t much, but as I peered along the next row of shelves, one of the huge files was slightly behind the others. As if it had been shoved back into place in a hurry.

Palms sweating, I pulled out the file and opened it up.

It was produced by the Ministry of Defence, and huge and heavy in my hands. I laid it on the table and turned the pages. Some sort of reference file, complete with information on everything from storage facilities to spying equipment. The word
Classified
was stamped on every page. For a second I wondered what on earth Bookman was doing leaving such a thing lying around on his bookshelf, then I caught the date at the top of the page.
Jeez.
This file had been printed in the early sixties. Everything inside it must be hopelessly out of date.

I skimmed the pages. A whole chapter on hidden cameras. They looked as big as bricks . . . a far cry from today’s fibre-optic technology. The next page carried a picture of a room filled with some huge machine I couldn’t identify.

The caption underneath the photograph read:
State-of-the-art computer for Wardingham facility.

That massive machine was a computer? I shook my head and turned another page. Then another.

I couldn’t see why anyone would be interested in this reference file, other than as some sort of history lesson.

I turned the next page. The jagged edge of torn paper met my eyes.

I frowned. Why had this page been torn out?

I stared, intently, at the text on the bottom of the previous page.

The domestic archive will extend three hundred yards underground and will contain minutes of all meetings not considered vital to national security. Floor plans for the new archive are shown opposite. These outline room layouts, the venting system and a new state-of-the-art security system. It is hoped that . . .

The text obviously continued on the next page – the one that had been torn out.

I blinked, trying to make sense of what I’d found. Why would anyone want to tear out a page of an ancient file showing floor plans to a building built in the sixties?

‘What are you doing?’ Nico was in the doorway, looking cross. Ketty stood beside him.

‘We have to leave,’ Ketty insisted. ‘We couldn’t stop Laura coming inside. She’s downstairs now, freaking out over Bookman’s dead body. Ed’s trying to calm her down, but—’

‘Geri’s sending some special police to deal with Bookman and escort us back to the Lake District,’ Nico interrupted. ‘I thought you’d want a heads-up.’

‘Thanks.’ I held out the MoD file, showing the torn page. ‘I think I know what Bookman’s murderer was after.’

Ketty took the book. ‘This is ancient,’ she said. ‘Why would he be interested in some old MoD building in Wardingham, wherever that is?’

‘I don’t know, but the killer took the trouble to stop and take the page even though he knew we were in the house, so it must have meant something to him.’

‘How do you know the killer tore that page out?’ Nico said, in a voice that suggested he thought I was totally mad.

As I explained about the sounds we’d heard and my retracing of the intruder’s footsteps, Ketty pored over the MoD file. Nico’s expression remained sceptical.

‘I still don’t buy it,’ he said.

‘Well, maybe you’ll buy this.’ Ketty pointed to a red stain on the back cover of the file. ‘It’s blood and it’s still wet. I’m betting it’s Bookman’s, wiped off the murderer’s fingers.’

Nico raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you want to do, Dylan?’

I met his gaze. ‘I’m going to this Wardingham archive.’

‘How d’you know it ever got built?’ Nico protested.

‘Even British builders don’t take more than sixty years to build something,’ I said tartly.

‘Don’t let Ed hear you say that,’ Ketty said. ‘His dad’s a builder.’

‘What do you think you’re going to find there?’ Nico went on.

‘I’m going to find out the one thing I really need to know,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find out who killed my parents.’

21: Wardingham

We got away from Bookman’s house just after midnight and just before the police arrived. Laura was totally freaked out – frantic that if Bookman’s murderer was still at large, we were in terrible danger.

‘If he’d wanted to kill us, he’d have attacked us back in the house,’ Nico pointed out.

‘And remember, we have our Medusa skills,’ Ketty added. ‘They give us an edge over almost anyone.’

‘I know,’ Laura said anxiously, ‘but this is still
such
a dangerous situation for you all to be in.’

‘We’ve been in worse,’ Ed said quietly. He glanced at Harry. ‘I think you should take your mum home . . . lay low for a bit. We didn’t mention you to Geri. No one needs to know we’ve seen you or that you’re involved in any of this.’

Harry looked at me. I nodded.

If I was honest, I didn’t want Harry to leave – but knowing that he and Laura were safe was more important.

‘I have to check out the archive,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe Bookman’s murderer would have torn out that page if they hadn’t really needed it. And if they’re going to the Wardingham building, then I have to go, too.’

‘At least let me give you all a decent meal,’ Laura protested. ‘Maybe a few hours’ sleep as well.’

‘Thanks, but we need to get going,’ I said.

Laura voiced a few more objections, but she knew she was beaten. After a while, she took us to an all-night internet café in the nearest large town, where Ed did some speedy online research. Ironically, although Bookman’s 1960s file spoke of the MoD building at Wardingham as a state-of-the-art new facility, the building was about to undergo major renovations.

‘According to this article from a couple of months ago, there’s going to be some cutbacks in staffing to pay for internal recabling work,’ Ed said, peering at his screen.

‘Man, there’s three hundred yards of archives in that basement,’ Nico read over his shoulder. ‘And we have no idea what we’re looking for.’

Laura went to the bathroom, as Ketty clicked on a link at the side of the page. The outside of the building appeared. It looked like a prisoner-of-war camp, surrounded by a series of high, wire fences, and an entry hut guarded by two men in army uniform.

‘Can you guys really get past all that?’ Harry’s tone was part awed, part sceptical.

‘No problem,’ Nico said. ‘Unless there’s something we don’t know about.’

For a second, I wavered. In the end, what was going to the MoD Wardingham archive going to achieve? Even if I did, somehow, find out who killed my parents, the knowledge would never bring them back. And I was putting everyone at risk in the attempt.

I could feel Ed and Ketty looking at me. Were they about to back out?

I turned my face away, suddenly knowing that I had to go, whatever the risks, even if I went by myself.

Ed’s thoughts pushed into my mind.

I know you’ll deny it if I say this out loud, but I can see on your face that you think we might not want to go with you to Wardingham.

I stared at him. He met my eyes.

We’re all in this together, Dylan
, he thought-spoke.
This is our next mission.

He broke the connection.

‘Thanks, Ed,’ I said.

Harry stared at me, clearly bewildered.

‘We need to make a plan,’ Ketty said briskly. ‘Once we’re inside, what are we looking for?’

Everyone turned to me.

I cleared my throat, my thoughts coming into focus. ‘My best guess is that my dad knew who was planning to kill him and told Bookman just before he died. Everyone thought my dad was being paranoid, but Bookman’s murder kind of suggests there
is
a killer, who maybe knows that we’re onto him and is desperately trying to get rid of everything that ties him to my parents’ deaths.’

‘. . . Ties that include the records of the conversation William Fox had with Bookman before he died?’ Ed said. ‘Records that will be stored somewhere at Wardingham?’

‘Exactly,’ I said.

We set off as soon as Laura reappeared from the bathroom. She agreed to drive us to the outskirts of Wardingham and let us approach the complex on foot.

Travelling through the middle of the night took very little time. We reached the drop-off point just after 3 a.m.

Laura rubbed her eyes and yawned. She must be exhausted from all the driving and worrying she’d done.

As we got out of the car, I went over and thanked her.

She pulled me into a hug. ‘Please call me as soon as you’re done, Dylan,’ she said. ‘I need to know you’re all right.’

‘Sure,’ I said gruffly. I wasn’t used to someone caring about me like that.

It felt weird.