Legacy of Guilt Read online

  LEGACY OF GUILT

  L. J. MORRIS

  Published in 2022 by Dark Edge Press.

  Y Bwthyn

  Caerleon Road,

  Newport,

  Wales.

  www.darkedgepress.co.uk

  Text copyright © 2022 L. J. Morris

  Cover Design: Jamie Curtis

  Cover Photography: Canva

  The moral right of L. J. Morris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  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, stored, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  ISBN (eBook): B09XYL3NXQ

  ISBN (Paperback): 979-8-8194-7768-7

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  To all those still on patrol.

  PROLOGUE

  The armoured limousine turned off the main road and stopped at the security barrier of the conference centre. The driver rolled down his window and handed his passenger’s ID documents to the guard, who scuttled back inside his hut, out of the rain. Inside the security cordon, at the entrance to the building, the security detail switched to a high state of readiness as the risky part of the operation approached. All vantage points that overlooked the road had been checked. Offices cleared and locked, roofs searched, and parked vehicles moved to a different part of the campus. The team on the ground talked into hidden microphones as they scanned windows and rooftops, alert for any possible threat. The guard at the gate handed the limo driver the checked documents and raised the barrier.

  Logan Palmer rode in the front seat of the limo, staring through the windscreen, but the visibility wasn’t good. He used a cloth to wipe condensation from the inside of the window, but the problem was outside. The weather was getting worse, and it worried him. Rain gave people a reason to wear bulky coats that might conceal a weapon, to pull up their hoods and hide their faces. He would have preferred an entrance through the underground car park and had told them that, forcibly. The car park was easily sealed off and he could get rid of the reception committee. It was safer, more secure, logical. The hierarchy, however, had other ideas; this was a publicity opportunity that couldn’t be missed.

  Palmer was an expert at what he did. He had been in the private security game since leaving the Royal Marines. He had provided close protection to high powered businessmen who were convinced they were a target. None of them were. He’d guarded celebrities who used him to enhance their VIP status. The more security they had, the more important they were. It was easy money, but he treated each client the same. He was a professional and took his job seriously, even if the threat was only in the VIP’s head. Today was different. Today, there was a very real threat, and having his security arrangements overruled for the sake of a publicity opportunity, was putting lives at risk.

  The company he worked for, Greenline Solutions, had been hired by the United Nations to provide close protection and security for one of their most high-profile scientists. Yvette Duval was the head of the UN Environment Programme. Initially, it was an organisation ignored by the world’s main polluters. The major industrial nations of the G7 only paid lip service to the problems of global warming. Behind the scenes, they carried on with their unrestrained use of fossil fuels and plastics, unwilling to risk their economies. The smaller nations pointed to the larger economies and rightly said, ‘If they don’t do it, why should we?’ But in the last two years, there had been a groundswell of protest, a rising anger. People were asking questions and demanding that something be done. The world needed someone to stand up and challenge big businesses. Yvette Duval was that person.

  Duval regularly had much publicised meetings with governments and chief executives. She made high profile speeches at Davos, the UN and the G7. She was lauded by presidents and prime ministers, but, beneath the surface, it was all show and she had upset a lot of powerful people.

  When she called for petrol and diesel cars to be banned immediately, she upset the car industry. Her plan to implement restrictions on air travel pitted her against the airlines and aircraft manufacturers. Food and drinks producers complained about the extreme cost of not using plastics. But, without any shadow of a doubt, the reason Palmer was in the limo was Duval’s push to set up a global environmental organisation. An authority with the real power to force through legislation and boycott all companies that supported fossil fuels. She wanted the ability to remove government contracts from all companies that didn’t fall in line. That was why she had received death threats. There were some unscrupulous groups that made billions out of the oil industry. Not just private companies, but governments; and they wanted her stopped.

  Palmer had spent every waking hour with Duval over the last month, getting to know her, her routines, her habits. If he was going to provide her with protection, she needed to trust him implicitly. She needed to do what he said without question or hesitation. Her life could depend on it.

  Duval and Palmer got on well from day one. They were from similar, working-class backgrounds and shared many likes and dislikes. They often chatted into the small hours about music and literature. Away from the glare of the spotlight and the intrusions of the press, they had become quite close. Close enough for rumours of a relationship to start being whispered within Palmer’s team. Rumours that Duval did little to discourage, a relationship that some wouldn’t allow to flourish.

  The limo slowed as it approached the entrance. Palmer and the driver were hyper vigilant, constantly checking in all directions for a potential threat. Palmer spoke into the microphone that was concealed in his hand. ‘Delta Two, Delta One, over.’

  There was no response.

  ‘Delta Two, Delta One . . . over!’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Delta Three, where is Delta Two?’

  ‘Delta One, Delta Three. Two is checking one of the rooftops opposite your position, over.’

  The limo drew to a halt at the end of the red carpet which had been rolled down the
steps from the conference centre’s ornate entrance. ‘Delta Two, this is Delta One. Where are you? Over.’

  ‘Delta Two. Keep your hair on, Logan. We’re good to go.’

  Palmer lowered his mic. ‘Prick!’

  Duval leaned forwards in the back seat. ‘Is something wrong, Logan?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t deal with. Be ready to go, but don’t move until I open the door. Okay, Yvette?’

  ‘Okay. I still think it’s a lot of fuss over nothing.’

  Palmer opened his door and climbed out. He looked around at the small gathered crowed of dignitaries, checked the rest of the team were in place and scanned the rooftops. ‘Delta Three, Delta One over.’

  ‘Delta Three clear.’

  ‘Delta Two, Delta One, over.’

  ‘Delta Two clear.’

  Palmer took hold of the handle, had one last look around him, and opened the door.

  Duval climbed out, opening a small umbrella over her head as she did.

  The crack that Palmer heard wasn’t the sound of a sniper’s weapon, it was the sound of the bullet hitting Duval in the chest.

  Palmer stepped forwards and caught her as she fell, pushing her back into the car. The second bullet carved a groove in Palmer’s shoulder as he closed the door. ‘Go, go, go!’

  The driver put his foot down and sped off as people scattered all around them.

  Palmer looked down at Duval. She was staring at him, eyes wide. The Kevlar vest she wore wasn’t thick enough to stop the high velocity, large calibre round. The damage was massive. Duval struggled to breathe; blood pouring from her mouth.

  Palmer took off his jacket, balled it up and held it over the wound. ‘Stay with me, Yvette.’ He pressed hard to try and stop the bleeding, but he knew it was too late. He had seen wounds like this before and they were always fatal.

  As the limo sped back under the security barrier and skidded out onto the main road, Palmer looked down at Duval. ‘Yvette.’

  Her eyes remained wide open but she gave no response.

  She stopped breathing and slumped in his arms.

  She was gone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Dharma Café sat at the end of a row of shops in the Forest Gate area of London. It wasn’t as big or as cheap as some of the larger coffee chains, but it was becoming more popular with the younger generation who were now moving into nearby flats and houses. The area was far enough outside central London for rental prices to be affordable, but close enough to easily commute to the city when necessary. With its small village-like feel and varied green spaces, it was on the verge of a boom and local businesses were enjoying a renaissance. Times were getting better.

  The Dharma was a Buddhist café that had been open for just over five years. Struggling at first and almost going under on two occasions, it was now tapping into the millennial appetite for fair trade products and the trend for vegetarian and vegan diets. Its whole menu was ethically sourced and there was no plastic packaging in sight. When it came to the current demand to protect the environment, The Dharma Café was ahead of the game.

  The décor, both inside and out, was faux Tibetan. The colour scheme was dominated by maroon and yellow as the owners tried a little too hard to enforce their Buddhist credentials. The sign above the door was bright red with gold lettering in a font that mirrored Sanskrit writing.

  Inside, long bench seats and settees were arranged around an eclectic collection of handmade tables. Brightly coloured prayer flags hung around the walls, and, in one corner, an incense burner filled the air with a fragrant aroma that was spread across the room by the slowly turning, wooden blades of a large ceiling-mounted fan. The counter was built out of reclaimed wood, in various colours, and the menu was handwritten on a chipped blackboard. It gave the whole space a recycled feel.

  Its clientele wasn’t the usual collection of people who sat alone and stared at laptop screens while their skinny latte went cold. Instead, customers of the Dharma Café sat together and chatted. Some carried yoga bags and water bottles, on their way back from early morning meditation sessions. Others, on their way to the office, hid their laptops under tables or cushions, they would be looking at them for long enough during the day. The customers of The Dharma Café were, in the main, young people who valued their health. People who knew the value of taking time out to relax and refresh. There were exceptions, of course.

  Sitting in an alcove on a small mustard coloured armchair, Anna Riley stirred her green tea and did her best to be invisible. She didn’t come here to make friends and she wasn’t in the mood for a chat. Her head was pounding, and her eyes were gritty and bloodshot. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to eat. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford to eat or that it had been a long time, she just couldn’t remember. She was living her life through a haze of half remembered conversations and blurred images. All the pictures in her head were randomly jumbled up in a mess of snapshots that were pinned to a wall with no timeline. The memories could have been just a few hours old, but, then again, they could be from days or even weeks ago.

  For the last few months, each day seemed worse than the last. A broken relationship and a string of unfulfilling one-night stands had plunged her self-esteem into a pit she was struggling to climb out of. By anyone’s standards, she was a mess, and she knew it. She had tried to straighten herself up many times, but it always ended with another night she couldn’t remember, another day of headaches and bitter regret.

  A tear ran down her cheek and she wiped it away quickly, unwilling to share her problems with the world. She took off her jacket, sank back into the chair and closed her eyes.

  Riley’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the chair opposite hers scraping across the tiled floor. She sat up. A smartly dressed woman in her forties placed her coffee on the table and sat down. Riley didn’t think she had fallen asleep, but it was hard to tell. She hadn’t heard anyone approaching her and was caught off guard. She looked around, checking for anyone who was watching them or who didn’t fit in, some of her MI5 training was still buried in her subconscious. No one in the café was paying them any attention, it looked like the woman was alone. Riley tried to recover her composure. ‘I’m sorry, someone’s sitting there.’

  The woman smiled and pushed her glasses up to the top of her head where they nestled in her long blonde hair. ‘Hello Anna. I’m Victoria Thomson. You can call me Vicky.’

  The shock of being ripped from her hangover-induced meditation had set Riley’s heart pounding. Who was this woman? How did she know who Riley was? ‘I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.’

  Thomson took a sip of her coffee. ‘How’s your head? You had a heavy night last night.’

  Riley didn’t even know what she had done the previous night. The pain in her temples was getting worse. ‘What? How the hell would you know what I did?’

  ‘I was there, Anna . . . Remember? Oh no, you wouldn’t, would you?’

  Riley’s memory was a blank. All she knew for sure was that she had walked into a bar and ordered a drink. As usual, everything that happened after that was a mystery to her. ‘Who are you? What do you want? Are you following me?’

  Thomson cleared her throat. ‘I work for Edward Lancaster, I’m sure you know who he is. He asked me to check up on you, see if you’re okay.’

  Riley knew the name. Edward Lancaster was the new head of MI6, a legend amongst the security community. But Riley didn’t work for him, she worked for MI5. At least, she used to. Before all this. ‘Why would someone like Lancaster care about me?’

  ‘We’ve been watching you, Anna. We want to know if you really are a burned-out wreck ready for the scrapheap, or whether you are still capable of doing a job for us.’

  Riley was still trying to make sense of what was happening. If she woke up screaming and found out this was a dream, it wouldn’t have surprised her. ‘What kind of job? Why me?

  ‘I’m not going to go into details here.’ Thomson slid a small card
across the table. ‘Be at that address tomorrow at ten o’clock. If you’re up to it, we’ll give you the details.’

  Riley looked at the card. ‘What if I’m not ready?’

  Thomson leaned forwards and lowered her voice. ‘Trust me, Anna, I know what it’s like. I was once where you are. It was Edward that brought me back in. This is your last chance at a reprieve, no one wants to work with you, you’re a liability.’

  ‘If I’m such a problem, why do you and Lancaster want me?’

  Thomson finished her coffee. ‘Call it a hunch, call it sympathy, call it whatever you want, but, if you don’t take this job, you’re fucked.’

  Riley knew she had to go back to work, no matter how anxious she was. She couldn’t carry on like this. Her behaviour, her addictions, were getting worse. Turning this job down would undoubtably lead to one outcome. An increasingly downward spiral that ended with her dying alone in a grubby bedsit, choking on her own vomit. She put the card in her pocket. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good. You won’t regret it, Anna. I didn’t.’ Thomson stood up. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this. Oh, and do yourself a favour, try and stay sober until then.’ She turned and walked away.

  Riley looked at her watch, it was one o’clock already, there wasn’t much time to get herself sorted out. Some smarter, cleaner clothes would help, a bit of makeup to hide the black rings around her eyes, and her hair could really do with a trim. She couldn’t afford to blow this and wanted to at least look presentable. Checking out Victoria Thomson was also high on her to-do list; they would expect her to do that. But first, before the clothes shops and the hairdressers, she needed to get something substantial to eat. Her hangover was wearing off and the possibility of getting back to work had given her a burst of nervous energy and she realised that she was starving.

  She drank the cold remnants of her green tea, grabbed her coat, and left the café.