Cult Following: No Faith To Lose (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 0) Read online

  Contents

  Title page

  Other books by Simon J. Townley

  Chapter 1 - A Free Man

  Chapter 2 - A Father’s Plea

  Chapter 3 - Resignation

  Chapter 4 - Farringdon

  Chapter 5 - Faces In The Crowd

  Chapter 6 - Parental Concern

  Chapter 7 - If They Bite

  Chapter 8 - Technical Support

  Chapter 9 - Bait

  Chapter 10 - An Infiltration

  Chapter 11 - An Interogation

  Chapter 12 - Locked Doors

  Chapter 13 - Happiness Is A Warm Gun

  Chapter 14 - Mind Control

  Chapter 15 - Revelation

  Chapter 16 - Betrayal

  Chapter 17 - A Former Lover

  Chapter 18 - The Penitent’s Cell

  Chapter 19 - A Lift Home

  Chapter 20 - Eavesdropping

  Chapter 21 - The Hero Saves The Day

  Chapter 22 - Wasting Time

  Chapter 23 - The Shipping Container

  Chapter 24 - A Kidnapping

  Chapter 25 - Mister Marlo, He Dead

  Chapter 26 - A Musical Interlude

  Chapter 27 - Chores

  Chapter 28 - The Ex

  Chapter 29 - Running Out

  Chapter 30 - Time

  Chapter 31 - Low Profile

  About the Author

  Author's and publisher's notes

  Cult Following

  (No Faith To Lose)

  The Capgras Conspiracy – prequel novella

  by

  Simon J. Townley

  Copyright © 2017 Simon Townley. All rights reserved.

  simontownley.com

  Published By Beardale Books

  beardale.com

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  This text uses British English spelling.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  Other novels by Simon J. Townley

  Blood Read (Publish and Be Dead)

  (Book one of ‘The Capgras Conspiracy’)

  Cold Monsters (No Secrets To Conceal)

  (Book two of ‘The Capgras Conspiracy’)

  The Dry Lands

  (book one of ‘A Tribal Song – Tales of the Koriba’)

  In the Rattle of the Shaman’s Bones

  (book two of ‘A Tribal Song – Tales of the Koriba’)

  The Fire Within

  (book three of ‘A Tribal Song – Tales of the Koriba’)

  Doguar and the Baboons of War

  Lost In Thought

  Ball Machine

  Outlivers

  In The Wreckage (A Tale of Two Brothers)

  Wild, Hugo Wilde

  Monster Hunters of the Undermire

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  Chapter 1

  A Free Man

  Rain. Rain everywhere. Rain cascading from bleak, black clouds. Rain rushing along gutters and spattering on windows. Rain working its way into coats and beneath hats, and around the rubber seals on car doors. Rain slithering along the pavement, disappearing into drains and gurgling its defiance.

  Rain on the roads, battering at windscreens, whipped into whirling geysers of mist and spray; rain drumming dementedly on the windows of homes, shops and offices, schools and hospitals. Rain that never ends. Rain on the bus stops and train stations, on the zebra crossing and traffic lights. Rain at the roundabouts. Rain at the gatehouse. Rain at the guardhouse. Rain hammering on the roof tiles of the crumbling Victorian prison where Tom Capgras, investigative journalist, leaned on the counter and inspected the bundle of possessions in the mean, metal box. He tried his iphone but the battery was dead. It would be, after one hundred and thirty-seven long, long days and nights of lying idle.

  “How do I get home?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Or care?”

  The prison officer shrugged. He appeared worn down with the drudgery of dull work, bad diet and too much booze.

  Capgras checked his wallet. Twenty-one pounds and an expired bank card. Not to worry. Someone, a brother, sister, or close friend, would be waiting outside with a car to whisk him away from this white collar clink and deliver him home to the bosom of his family.

  The prison officer demanded his signature in triplicate to vouch that he had no complaints and all his belongings were accounted for. The man unlocked the door with a flourish of unforgiving keys. “Get out, before we change our minds. And don’t come back.”

  “Don’t intend to.” Tom took a long, purposeful stride over the threshold.

  “They all say that. Yet somehow…” The door slammed behind him. “Good riddance,” it seemed to howl.

  Tom gulped the sweet air of freedom. It smelt of hope and regret, pain and pleasure, past and future. But mostly, it smelt of rain.

  Rain that splattered on his head and poured down his Belstaff jacket, soaking into his black jeans. He peered through the torrent of water, looking for a car, a friendly face, a sign that someone out there remembered his existence, and had been warned of his imminent arrival back into their lives. Had made plans. Had brought transport, and dry clothes, and beer.

  He gazed up and down the road but saw no welcome, no waiting loved ones. There was nothing to do for it but walk the wet roads, heading for the lights of the nearby town which would surely have a taxi, or a bus, or train or some means of getting the hell out of here, wherever here was, and back to London.

  He trudged, shoulders hunched. Two miles, he calculated. Should he save the money for transport, or head straight to the nearest pub? He could call his sister. Though she had no car. Or the newsroom. They should send someone. He was still on the payroll after all. And it was their fault, in a roundabout way, that he’d lost four and a half months of his short and precious life.

  A saloon, its headlights blurred, windscreen wipers flailing as if pleading for mercy, slowed as it approached from behind him. Capgras glanced over his shoulder but kept walking, listening intently.

  The Mercedes matched his pace.

  Tom Capgras didn’t mix with the kind of people who would drive a luxury model. The hair on his neck bristled. There was something wrong here, he felt it in his bones.

  The electric window slid down. “Get in.”

  Tom didn’t look across. Keep walking he told himself.

  “I said get in.”

  Who was it this time? Police, spooks, MI5? Reporters from the tabloids? Conspiracy nuts? Criminals, looking for information on events inside? Or spies pursuing him for the data, hoping there might be more government secrets stashed somewhere.

  The car stopped. “Tom, in now or I’ll run you over.”

  There was something about that voice, recognised from years before. From a life long gone. From the mists of childhood. He leaned over and peered inside.

  It was worse than anything he had feared. Worse than cops or secret service agents or crooks or journos or nutters or all of them combined. This was the day he had longed for, all those endless hours in a lonely cell: the day he walked free. But it had already turned
out to be wet and drab, miserable, dangerous and desperate. And it was all downhill from here.

  Chapter 2

  A Father’s Plea

  Tom opened the passenger door and slumped into the car, a puddle forming rapidly in the seat around him as his clothes oozed sodden rain.

  “I should bloody kill you,” the man said. “Writing that crap.”

  Bob Gilmour was a dodgy businessman but a devoted father. On both counts, he and Tom had experienced more than a few differences of opinion over the years. Gina Gilmour had been Tom’s first real girlfriend, back when they were both seventeen, drifting into eighteen. It hadn’t ended well. She ditched him for Tom’s best friend, and neither had spoken a civil or friendly word to the other since. Not even when she had an abortion, without telling Tom. But she told her Dad, and he visited, with threats and imprecations and warnings, all of them too late, because that relationship was already ancient history.

  Then, five years later, came a chance for revenge, of sorts, though Tom saw it as doing his job, performing his role as a righter of wrongs, pursuer of the corrupt and the conspiracy makers, champion of the dispossessed. He exposed Bob Gilmour’s shady financial dealings and his lax attention to health and safety which endangered not only his customers and staff, but the wider public too. An outcry followed, Gilmour’s building firm lost contracts, harsh words were spoken in the village pub that Christmas. But Tom moved on from the local paper to a national one, to bigger tales and more money and investigations into major criminals, such as the banks and governing classes. “Lovely to see you,” Tom said. “Though you were the last person I expected.”

  “Don’t think I’m here to do you a favour. You owe me. Messed me up good and proper that article did.”

  “That was a long time ago. Why now? Why here?”

  Exasperated windscreen wipers batted the raindrops away as the car slooshed along the main road towards Eastchurch.

  Gilmour grimaced as if bracing himself for an ordeal. “I need your help.”

  “I’m hardly best placed, fresh out of prison…”

  “Gina’s in trouble.”

  “Nothing to do with me. This time, I have an alibi. Cast-iron.”

  “Don’t get funny. This is serious. She’s in danger.”

  “I haven’t seen her in ten years. Or heard from her. Why me?”

  “It’s your friend’s fault.”

  “What friend would that be?”

  “Charlie Bloody Marlo.”

  “He’s no friend of mine. Not any more. Besides, he’s dead.”

  Gilmour swung the car into a lay-by. “You think?” He fished into a pocket of his black woollen coat and produced a dog-eared, tattered photograph. He flourished it in the air. “What do you call that?”

  Capgras took the photo as if handling a Ming vase. “Don’t see many printouts these days. Didn’t see many of them even when this was taken.”

  “It was two months ago. In India.”

  “No way. Marlo died three years ago, I know that for a fact. I was invited to the funeral though I didn’t go.”

  “You should have. You could have double-checked he was in there.”

  “There was no body. The ashes had been flown back from Cambodia. Or Peru. Or somewhere.”

  “You were hoaxed. He’s alive.”

  “Impossible. I spoke to people.”

  “They lied. Marlo’s behind Gina’s disappearance. He’s got her involved in something. Gina’s not in touch with us anymore, won’t speak to her own parents, we haven’t seen her. But she keeps in contact with her cousin, who says she’s mixed up in some kind of cult, crazy folk, and it’s your job to figure out who, and why. And you’re going to get her out of there. Bring her home.”

  Capgras scowled at the rain trickling down the windows of the Mercedes. How would he find her and then persuade her to leave whatever group or thing she’d gotten into? She was a free woman, stubborn as hell if he remembered right. And he was the last person she would trust. Or talk to. Or believe. “Can’t be done. Go to the police.”

  “Like they care.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Said there was nothing they could do.”

  “Try a private detective.”

  “It has to be you.”

  “I fail to see why.” Tom handed the photo back. “Drop me at the train station. I’ll ask around, do some reporter stuff, research this cult, but that’s all I can offer. You’ll have to persuade Gina yourself.”

  “That’s not enough.” Bob clenched and unclenched his fists, his knuckles cracking angrily. “Someone has to go in undercover, find out what’s going on. That’s where you come in. It’s what you’re good at.”

  Tom buried his face in his hands. “My appearance is known these days.” The high-profile court case for possession of state secrets saw to that. “And I was looking forward to getting my old life back. Sort stuff out. Maybe even try working for a living, going down the pub, seeing friends. All of that.”

  “Gina needs you.”

  “She never has before. Sorry.” Capgras opened the car door, poised to step into the rain, the torrent and the wind.

  “I’ll pay you.”

  He needed money, badly. But not like this. Besides, Bob Gilmour would cheat him on any deal they made. Tom swung his legs out, preparing to push himself up. “No thanks. Leave me out of it.”

  “Her life depends on it. Please. For old time’s sake.”

  Capgras shook his head. Ribbons of rainwater sprayed across the car. “Get a professional, an ex-cop. Someone detached. I’m a journalist, not a rounder up of waifs and strays.” He lurched to his feet. “What’s this cult called?”

  “Hungry Moon.”

  “That sounds weirded out, I’ll give you that.”

  “Bonkers, the lot of them, but dangerous with it.”

  That was a good reason to stay clear. “I’ll find out what I can and let you know. But nothing more.” He slammed the car door, hunched his shoulders against the rain and resumed his long and weary walk towards the train station.

  Chapter 3

  Resignation

  He returned as a conquering hero, or a wounded veteran back from the wars, an explorer home from impossible travels, the martyr who took on the dragon but lost.

  He stepped onto the newsroom floor and paused. Faces turned. A hush fell across the place for a split second, then they clapped and got to their feet. Colleagues rushed across the room to shake his hand and pat him on the back, all because he’d done his time and come out the other side, still standing after defying the powers that be.

  The government and its assorted secret service agencies had taken a dim view of his possession, in the bottom drawer of his desk, of a hard drive that didn’t belong to him. It belonged to the state, along with its data, its secrets and its menace.

  Capgras had never benefitted. He couldn’t get past the encryption, and at times he cursed the anonymous informant who sent it in the post. Had he been set up? It was possible, but there was no way to know for sure. Besides, it was done now. Move on.

  He pressed through the surge of bodies, heading for the news-desk. Jon Fitzgerald, news editor of The Monitor, shambled out of his chair, fumbling with his glasses, pulling his knitted cardigan back onto his shoulders. He embraced Tom in a bear hug, then gripped him by the arms and stared into his face. “That bad, huh?”

  Tom shrugged. “The boredom was the worst part. And not seeing sunshine.”

  “We didn’t hear you were getting out. Must have been sudden.”

  “It felt like a long time coming. But yeah, they don’t give much notice.”

  Fitzgerald slumped into his swivel chair and swung his feet onto the desk. He was still wearing the same pair of brown suede slippers he’d had on the day Tom first met him, six years before.

  Fitzgerald perched his glasses on the ridge of his nose. “Ready to start work? I can put you on the roster for tomorrow. Or do you need a few days to settle in?”

&nbs
p; “About that. I need to see the top brass.”

  Fitzgerald frowned and peered at Tom over the rim of his glasses. “What would that be about?”

  “Discuss my situation here.”

  “Your job’s been kept open, just as we promised. No problems there.”

  “That’s good of you, but…”

  “Now don’t ‘but’ me Tom. This is the best job you’ll ever have. Best newspaper. Only one that’ll give you the freedom. Or print the kind of stories you bring in.”

  “I was thinking I could go freelance. Take it easy for a while. Work my own hours. Pick my assignments.”

  “Freelance work is patchy. Besides, for the investigations and big projects, you don’t stand a chance without the backing of a newsroom. The prestige. The press card. You need a newspaper behind you Tom, for campaigning journalism.”

  “They’ll still support me.”

  “But won’t be happy. They’ve been paying your wages all this time.”

  Capgras reached into a pocket and produced an envelope. “I’ve thought it over. Decision’s made. My resignation. Might as well make it immediate. You weren’t expecting me to be here in any case.”

  “Let me talk to Milikan.”

  Tom knew what the editor would say: the same arguments Jon had rehearsed. But he couldn’t face it any more. Not right now, at least. Not coming into the newsroom, day in, day out, sitting here trapped indoors, away from sunlight and the wind in the trees. He needed open spaces, empty days, room to roam and breath.