Read sample The Shadow Code

Chapter 1

Sir Charles Templeton's polished Oxfords clicked against the wet pavement, each step echoing through Westminster's blacked-out streets. The Thames whispered against the embankment as he walked east from Whitehall, the air thick with smoke and the ghosts of another raid.

The wind carried the acrid stench of smoke from the eastern docks – timber and the sickly-sweet smell of sugar, wine and other perishables still burning two days after Jerry’s first great blow.

He shouldn’t have been walking alone, not with what he carried, but his driver’s sudden reassignment an hour earlier had left him no choice. The meeting point had shifted, too. Last-minute change, most irregular. His contact claimed it was operational necessity, but it nagged at him even now. Still, there hadn’t been time to argue. Some truths were too dangerous for telephones and the nation’s security depended on him reaching his contact tonight.

He adjusted his gloves with an old habit of precision, thumbs smoothing the seams as if every crease mattered. Military training had never quite left him; neither did the need to appear composed, even when the world was falling apart.

His knuckles whitened around the handle of his briefcase. The documents inside would make headlines if discovered, but they were mere decoys. The real prize was stitched into his coat lining: a scrap of paper that could end the war or destroy Britain’s last advantage. The needle pricks still smarted on his fingertips. Margaret would have done it better, with thimble and care, but Margaret couldn’t know.

He passed shuttered shops, boarded windows and sandbagged doorways. A puff of breeze lifted a Ministry poster: CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES. Someone had scrawled a moustache on the listening man’s face. Despite everything, Templeton smirked. The powers that be had come up with an array of bold, brash slogans and this one – underlined in red – was no different.

He approached Victoria Embankment Gardens and slipped through the entrance. The park loomed, dark and rustling.

Then the air raid siren‘s wail cut through the air, and he stiffened, that familiar tide of fear and urgency flooding his chest. Searchlights split the sky in graceful arcs as the ack-ack gun team snapped to readiness. High above, the distant drone of fighters engaging – Spitfires and Messerschmitts locked in their deadly dance. Civilians scattered like leaves in a storm: a woman clutching a child darted towards the Savoy, an old man hobbled into the Underground. The sensible thing would be to follow them. Instead, Templeton quickened his pace.

The river shimmered black as spilled ink. Overhead, the growl of bombers swelled into a guttural roar, chasing the Thames like bloodhounds on a scent.

Cold air knifed through the park, shaking hedges and scattering leaves like whispered warnings. Unease prickled his neck, the sense of eyes tracking his every step. He slowed his pace, listened with held breath. A soft scuff, or just the breeze, but the thought did little to calm his racing pulse. Blast it all, man. You’re afraid of your own shadow now. Clouds swallowed the bomber’s moon and he picked up his pace, his breath writhing like a serpent against the indigo night.

To his left, beyond the trees, he glimpsed the faint outline of rooftops where below, Londoners curled beneath blankets or dashed for shelter, praying to see another dawn. Margaret would be asleep in their Mayfair flat, the coal fire still glowing. She didn’t always wake when the sirens wailed. God, he wished he was there. Just one more evening by her side.

James's last letter crinkled in his breast pocket. Nineteen and somewhere in North Africa, fighting a war that made Templeton's clandestine mission feel trivial. Stay safe, Father. He pushed the thought aside. Tonight's work might bring the boy home sooner.

The meeting place on Carting Lane lay up ahead, a minute away. He glanced across the park towards the Savoy, its dark bulk rising above the trees, half-swallowed by mist.

An ARP warden’s whistle shrieked nearby. ‘Take cover! Take cover!’ The voice echoed off the buildings, urgent and sharp, and he wished he could vanish into the shelter, but duty steered him on.

Templeton crossed the street and turned onto Carting Lane, the narrow passage rising like a shadowed ribbon between high brick walls. He was nothing but a silhouette here, a soft target. One well-placed stick of incendiaries and he’d become a footnote in tomorrow’s reports. But stopping meant losing his nerve, a luxury he couldn’t afford.

The footsteps behind him quickened and he cursed himself for leaving his revolver in the desk drawer. A voice emerged from the shadows.

‘Evening, Charles.’

The accent was perfect, delivering the King’s English, and the face that stepped into view turned his blood to ice. Recognition bloomed, followed by a crushing realisation. A man he had vouched for. A man who had sat in on briefings with that same earnest expression, taking careful notes. The same man who knew about tonight’s route, the timing, even the decoy briefcase.

‘You really shouldn’t walk alone,’ the man said. ‘Bad things happen in the blackout.’

So, it was you all along. Templeton opened his mouth to speak the name, but leather-gloved fingers clamped over his lips. A flash of cold steel. Then the knife whispered across his throat, slicing through skin and sinew with surgical precision. Pain bloomed, sharp and cold, flooding his senses as the blade found its mark. No cry escaped, only the soft rush of breath and blood.

Warmth surged down his chest as his knees buckled. The briefcase clattered to the pavement and his killer lowered him as gently as a babe to the ground, where he slumped beside the Savoy’s service door. The cold stone leeched through his trousers. His vision blurred, darkness creeping inward.

Fingers clawed at his chest. Not the message. Please, God. That was his final thought as the darkness claimed him.

A whistle cut the air, a Bobby on patrol. Footsteps quickened, a shout rang out and the killer fled. Moonlight slid from behind the clouds, washing the alley silver. It gleamed in Sir Charles Templeton’s vacant eyes, his final expression frozen in death’s grasp. As searchlights combed the sky, the first bombs fell and London burned.

Inside his coat, threads held more than fabric together. Hidden between wool and lining, ordinary words waited in an extraordinary order, a code worth more than Britain’s gold reserves. The race had already begun.

Chapter 3

Jack Stratton closed the distance between them in three long strides, his voice low but firm. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Harcourt.’

‘Funny. I was about to say the same to you.’

His lips pressed into a thin line. ‘This isn’t your case anymore.’

‘Looks like murder to me.’

He exhaled sharply, glancing over his shoulder. His colleagues were already closing in on Calloway, flashing their credentials, making it clear this was now their scene. One of them pulled back the sheet, revealing the gaping slash across the victim’s throat: raw, red, obscene.

Ellie’s pulse leapt. Whatever this was, it wasn’t routine. Three of them, barging in, pushing her out.

A small crowd had begun to gather at the mouth of the lane. ‘Hop it!’ Calloway barked, waving them back. ‘Nothing to see here. Move along.’

Jack’s face froze as he stared at the corpse. ‘Christ,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘It’s Sir Charles Templeton.’

Calloway looked up sharply. ‘You’re certain?’

‘Met with him last week,’ Jack said. ‘He worked for the War Office.’

He turned back to Ellie, stepping in close enough that she had to raise her chin to meet his gaze. ‘Stay out of this.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the real issue here, Jack? Worried about my safety? Or worried I’ll figure out what you haven’t?’ The muscle in his jaw twitched – still smarting from the Higginson-Brown ball, apparently.

Thoughts hurtled through her mind. MI5 wouldn’t be here unless this case touched classified ground, war-related. And Jack wouldn’t be warning her off unless he knew exactly how far it reached. ‘It’s good to see you too,’ she murmured, before turning on her heel and stepping back towards Calloway. If MI5 were involved, that meant Templeton’s cryptic note mattered, and she was right.

Jack exhaled, rubbing a hand over his chin as he turned back to the body. ‘We need his personal effects, Chalmers.’

The broader man beside him turned, eyes narrowed, jaw already working a chew as if he’d eaten a lemon slice. ‘Got them,’ he said flatly, as if the request was a personal insult.

Chalmers. The fellow with the limp. Ellie’s eyes flicked to him. There was an arrogance to him, the way he looked down his nose at her, despite being barely taller, and her hackles rose. She could already tell he didn’t approve of women in the field. Tough luck, chum.

‘And who’s this, then?’ Chalmers asked, giving Ellie a once-over laced with disdain.

‘WPC Harcourt,’ she said, calm and steady.

Chalmers let out a short laugh, glancing theatrically around the scene. ‘Sending volunteers to crime scenes now?’

Ellie met his gaze, unbothered. Jack cut in smoothly before Chalmers could say anything else. ‘She’s staying. Back off.’

Chalmers blinked, surprised, but said nothing as he shot her one last glance that made her want to roll her eyes and file him under irrelevant men with loud opinions.

A constable approached with the evidence bag and handed it to Stratton, who reached inside and sifted through its contents. Ellie shifted slightly, keeping her expression neutral as she mulled over the code in her mind. Whatever it was, it mattered enough for someone to kill.

Calloway withdrew the note from his pocket and swiftly gave it the once-over. Jack held out a hand. ‘I’ll take that.’

‘Bit quick to claim evidence, aren’t we, Stratton?’

Jack’s expression didn’t flicker. ‘This is now a matter of national security.’

Ellie stood back, watching the two men. Our case. The murder was no longer Scotland Yard’s concern. Her gaze flicked to her boss, who, after a beat, handed the slip of paper over. Jack barely glanced at it before tucking it into his coat pocket. No matter, she thought, repeating the code in her mind like a mantra. Numbers. Cryptic words that, for now, made no sense. But she had cracked codes at Oxford for fun – how hard could it be?

When she looked up, he was watching her. For a moment, neither of them spoke, though Ellie could feel it – the weight of his gaze burning through hers as she stood a few steps apart from the others. He knew her and he knew enough to recognise that she’d seen something he hadn’t. That she was already thinking ahead in a way that made him uneasy.

The pieces on this chessboard were moving faster than she liked. If Templeton had been betrayed, then the traitor already knew the note existed. That was clearly what they were after.

Jack’s voice cut through her thoughts. ‘Let it go, Harcourt.’

His expression shifted: not the cold dismissal she expected, but a flicker that looked almost like worry. The expression was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual professional mask. She met his gaze with her own – calm, unshaken – and smiled faintly. ‘Already forgotten.’ But she wasn’t about to forget anything, not for one second.

Calloway gave a terse nod to Dawson and Whitaker. ‘Stay with the body until the police surgeon arrives,’ he muttered. Then, without another word, he turned and walked to the car.

Ellie hesitated for a moment, casting one final glance at the scene, at the men who’d already started writing her off. The surgeon and the photographer were taking their time, likely caught up in the chaos from the raid. She adjusted her gloves and followed Calloway.

***

Ellie slid behind the wheel, as Calloway settled into the passenger seat beside her with a grunt. He didn’t usually sit up front. That alone told her he was rattled. For a while, he said nothing, simply stared out at the city as she drove. The dim glow of blackout-shielded headlamps flickered ahead, barely cutting through the darkness. Thank goodness for the white painted stripes on the kerbs, though one had to strain to see.

‘All this fuss for one stiff in an alley,’ he muttered, fracturing the silence. ‘MI5 turning up like vultures. I reckon Stratton fancies himself as Churchill.’ He tutted.

Ellie kept her eyes on the road. ‘He wasn’t your average drunk in a doorway, sir.’ This wasn’t another unfortunate, caught in the Blitz.

‘True enough,’ Calloway said quietly. Then, louder: ‘This is more than your average murder, Harcourt. You mark my words.’

She flicked a glance at him. He continued staring straight ahead, but his tone had hardened. ‘Funny thing about Stratton tonight,’ Calloway mused, gazing out of the passenger-side window. ‘Seemed more rattled than territorial if you ask me. Kept watching you when he thought no one was looking.’

Ellie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Not the way a man looks at someone he dislikes,’ Calloway said, slowly. ‘More like someone he’s trying to protect. Makes a fellow wonder what he knows that we don’t.’

The words settled uneasily in Ellie’s chest. She’d been so focused on their history, on the humiliation and resentment, that she’d missed the deeper truth entirely. That flicker in his eyes when he’d warned her off hadn’t been spite. It had been fear. But fear of what? And why did Jack think she needed protecting?

‘There’s a rat away somewhere,’ he muttered. ‘And I’m going to flush it out.’

Ellie’s lips curved faintly. Not if I get there first.

‘Rats. You don’t see them in the beginning. And that’s half the trouble …’ he said, trailing off. Then, after a pause: ‘Since this war started, we’ve had dozens of sympathiser arrests. Half of ’em tucked away in cells, the rest under watch.’

The war had torn through London like shrapnel through fabric, exposing loyalties, secrets and ambitions. The cracks had always been there, but the Blitz had made them deeper.

Calloway shifted in his seat. ‘And Whitehall’s been off lately,’ he grumbled. ‘People whispering. Files going missing. Eyes watching, but no one knows who’s watching who.’ He shook his head. ‘The whole thing stinks, Harcourt. Worse than a barrel of rotten eels. There’s more twists and turns than in one of them Agatha Christie novels my wife’s forever harping on about.’

As they turned onto Baker Street, the city around them felt hollowed out, dark, watchful and waiting. The hum of the engine seemed louder in the silence between them, and Ellie stole a glance at her superior. He gave a dry little cough, still gazing out of the window. ‘You handled that scene well, Harcourt.’

Her breath caught. What the dickens? ‘Thank you, sir.’ Wizard praise from the boss. Whatever next?

For all his bark, Calloway was no fool. Gruff, yes. Pig-headed at times. But when he sensed trouble, he didn’t let go. And tonight, he was on edge. The way his eyes had narrowed when MI5 stepped in … He didn’t like being sidelined. And he really didn’t like someone else walking off with his evidence. Maybe he sensed what she did about the victim. He wasn’t the target of a robbery. That cryptic note pointed to far bigger concerns.

‘Stratton,’ he said after a moment, as if chewing on the name. ‘What’s Jack Stratton doing tangled up in this mess?’

Ellie hesitated. ‘I’ve known him for years, sir,’ she said lightly.

‘A friend of yours, is he?’ Calloway barked a laugh. ‘Your mother would’ve been over the moon if you’d married into that lot. Posh as a brass button. Never liked that other one – Chalmers. Bit too … smooth.’

She didn’t answer as her thoughts drifted back to Jack. Their families were acquainted, though Ellie’s mother disapproved of him. New money was the reason: Mother had always been a snob. Never once had she suggested Jack as a potential suitor, though to be fair it had probably been a wise decision. Stratton was many things. Arrogant, infuriating, secretive, frustratingly competent. But tonight she’d caught him off guard, seen past the usual mask. There’d been a warning in his eyes, yes. But also genuine worry. Fear, maybe. And not just for her.

As they pulled into the yard, Ellie cut the engine and stared ahead through the rain-speckled windscreen. The secret code whispered to her, each phrase like the beat of a metronome ticking beneath the surface of her thoughts. Echo 7. White Hart. Kingfisher. Merlin’s Eye. This was no ordinary case. It was a warning, she was sure of it. Someone had already killed to keep it secret. And Jack Stratton knew more than he was willing to share; she’d stake her life on it. Meeting with the murder victim a week ago. What was that about?