by Jack Gatland
‘So the child was Shaun’s? Victoria’s, I mean?’
‘Who knows,’ Susan leaned back, staring at the books on the wall. ‘Michael claimed he had the snip, but I know Charles claimed he’d put the kybosh on that too.’
‘How so?’
‘Do I look like Charles bloody Baker?’
Declan looked back to his notes. So Michael had wanted to change the Labour Party, and thought that Shaun was the perfect choice; until he learned that Shaun was having an affair with his wife. Meanwhile, Shaun was paranoid about a conspiracy against him, due to the death of his previous partner.
The letter had said that the father didn’t know yet.
Had Shaun learned about it the night of Victoria’s death?
But that left Andy Mac and Charles Baker, and Andy had lied when he said he didn’t really know Sarah. There was no way he couldn’t have been aware of her if she was having an affair directly in front of him.
‘Andy Mac,’ Declan said, looking back to Susan. ‘He said he didn’t know Sarah. Was he lying?’
Susan started laughing.
‘God, yes.’ she said. ‘Not only was he the prick who told her husband about it, Shaun was also convinced that Andy was the one that killed her.’
Declan’s pen stopped writing.
‘Why would he think that?’
Susan shrugged.
‘Because Andy did,’ she said.
13
No Place Like Home
Once he finished at Devington House, Declan decided that although it was easier to drive back to his father’s – no, his house from there, he needed to return back to his Tottenham studio apartment instead and change clothes. Although he’d swapped ties with one from his father’s supply, he was a different build to him and the shirts and suits would never fit. Besides, it felt a little ghoulish to do this while he had perfectly good clothes back at the apartment.
The problem he had was that he’d never liked the studio apartment; he’d rented it out of necessity rather than choice, being seconded to DCI Farrow and his North London unit at the time, and there was an element of closeness to his late father that he felt in Hurley. But whether he intended to live there or sell the house and buy something closer to London was a conversation with himself that Declan wasn’t happy to have right now. And so, after sending Monroe what he’d found out so far by email, he started back to London, dialling Temple Inn from the car.
‘Yeah?’ the voice of Trix answered.
‘Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Temple Inn Crime Unit’ or something when you answer the phone?’ Declan asked, more amused than anything.
‘Why? It showed it was you on the screen,’ Trix replied, obviously bored. ‘Do you want me to say it whenever you call? Is that your thing?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Declan was already regretting this conversation. ‘Just tell Monroe I’m on my way home, should be there by about 7pm if he needs to talk and if not, I’ll see him tomorrow.’
‘Which home?’ Trix asked. ‘I mean, you’ve got three now or something, right?’
‘Tottenham,’ Declan finished, disconnecting the call before the bored intern could ask any more questions. He had no idea what she did at the Unit, or even why she was there. And more importantly, Declan had this nagging feeling that there was something off with her. Something not right. Like a gate crasher at a wedding.
An imposter.
The journey back to Tottenham was uneventful, until the very end. As he arrived, Kendis Taylor was waiting for him, standing outside the entrance to his apartment block.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ she asked as he approached.
‘Well, bloody hell, Kendis, it’s been years. How the hell are you,’ Declan asked in a monotone, walking past her and opening the door. ‘I suppose you want to come in?’
Kendis grinned and followed Declan into the building.
‘Have you been waiting all day?’ he asked as they walked up the stairs. ‘Jesus, you haven’t been here since yesterday, have you?’
‘No, you idiot,’ Kendis replied, matching him step for step. Her wild black hair was pulled into braids, her black rimmed glasses accentuating her deep brown eyes. She wore a vintage German army coat over jeans, the olive colour of it contrasting against her darker skin.
She looked better than he remembered.
Arriving at his door, Kendis looked about.
‘Really gone up in the world,’ she said sarcastically. Declan turned the key in the lock, opening the door.
‘Lizzie and Jess got the house,’ he said as he waved her in. ‘And besides, I’m probably moving out soon.’
‘Yeah? Where?’ Kendis stopped herself. ‘Ah. Sorry.’
Declan smiled. ‘It’s okay, even I don’t know what to do about it.’
The studio apartment was little more than a bedsit, and hadn’t really been lived in much since Declan had moved in a couple of months earlier. His clothes were here, a few personal items were strewn around and there was a small TV beside a microwave in the corner, but apart from that, everything was tidied, hidden.
‘Nice place, I suppose,’ Kendis said.
‘And how’s your place in Putney?’ Declan asked, walking to the sink and filling the kettle.
‘We moved to Hackney about a year ago.’
‘Nice area,’ Declan replied. ‘I’m guessing you still take your coffee the same way?’
‘Just like me,’ she grinned. ‘Black and with sugar to the max.’
‘You sound like a stereotype,’ Declan continued as he found some cups from a shelf. Kendis shrugged.
‘Well to be honest, I prefer a good Matcha green tea these days, but saying ‘just like me, green with a hint of semi skinned oat milk’ spoils the joke.’
Declan turned from the kettle to face her. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t a social call?’
Kendis shook her head.
‘I wanted to say I was sorry about Patrick,’ she said, walking to the sofa and sitting on it. ‘The guy was a legend.’
‘He was that,’ Declan agreed. ‘He texted me a day or so before he died. It was right after the TV thing. I was waiting for the call from Farrow, expecting to be fired or even suspended, and this text comes through. You’re a bloody idiot, but I’m proud of you.’
Declan looked back to the kettle, not wanting Kendis to see the emotion in his eyes.
‘He was, you know.’ Kendis said as Declan brought her drink over to her. ‘I know you’d not spoken that much at the end, but he always talked about you.’
‘See him much, then?’ Declan sat on the other end of the sofa, turning to face her. Kendis’ expression flickered for the slightest of moments, as if this was a question she didn’t want to answer.
‘I did, actually,’ she replied eventually. ‘He’d asked for my help on a book he was writing.’
Declan nodded. ‘I saw it. Bloody idiot. Didn’t you tell him not to do it?’
‘It was his choice, Declan,’ Kendis was getting defensive now. ‘He knew what rocks he was overturning. And we both know that some of them needed it.’
Declan felt a pang of anger at this. He’d been almost fired for doing just that at Mile End. If Monroe hadn’t appeared, he’d have likely been unemployed by now.
‘I’m guessing you’d like to continue with it?’ he asked.
‘If possible.’
‘I’d like to read it first, before making a decision,’ he replied. ‘I’ll come back to you about that, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ Kendis nodded. ‘I just wanted to maybe come by the old place, pick up some of the research notes.’
‘Which ones?’ Declan asked. ‘The ones on his iMac, or the ones in the secret room at the back of the study?’
There was a silence as Kendis stared down at her coffee. Declan had known that this was a question that would blindside her.
‘I should have supposed that you would find it,’ she said. ‘Like father like son. Bloody detectives.’ The last part was said a
lmost jokingly, but Declan could tell there was something deeper underneath.
‘Why did he build it, Kendis?’ he asked. ‘He never told me about it, and he went to great lengths to hide it.’
‘The problems he had weren’t just from his past,’ Kendis said carefully, as if picking her words. ‘There were some local issues. He’d had someone break into his house; he knew they’d been reading his work. So he ensured he had some kind of ‘safe room’ to work in.’
Declan considered this. He’d lived in Hurley from childhood. He couldn’t think of anywhere that was more sleepy village. To think that someone there would break in and go through your things was something he couldn’t imagine.
‘I’ll need to go check that too,’ he said. Kendis nodded.
‘Of course. I can give you my number—’
‘I already have it,’ Declan said, a little too quickly. ‘Dad had the number on his desk,’ he explained hurriedly.
‘And yet you never phoned.’
‘And yet you never came to his funeral.’
It was a low blow, and it struck. Kendis’ eyes flashed.
‘Yeah, because that would have been great. Lizzie and I could have had an ‘all exes together’ moment.’
‘Yeah, fair point.’ Declan hadn’t really considered that. ‘But you could have still come. She may be my ex-wife, but you were my literal childhood.’
‘All people grow up,’ Kendis said sadly. ‘Anyway, I’d better get on. Peter’s taking me out for a curry tonight. Let me know when I can visit the house.’
She rose and walked to the door, Declan following.
‘I can find my own way out,’ she said.
‘I need the fresh air,’ Declan replied with a smile as they exited into the corridor. Walking down the steps to the main door, Declan paused Kendis on the stairs.
‘Actually, can I ask a favour?’ he said.
‘What sort of favour?’
‘You work on politics, right?’ Declan looked around to ensure they weren’t being overheard. ‘If you hear anything about Charles Baker over the next few days, can you let me know?’
‘You investigating him?’ Kendis asked as they carried on to the main entrance. Opening the door to the street, Declan shrugged.
‘Let’s just say he’s a person of interest in a very old case,’ he said. ‘And one of three people we’re looking at.’
‘The other two?’ Kendis asked before continuing, ‘off the record, of course. And if anything big happens, you give me the exclusive.’
‘Shaun Donnal and Andy Mac.’
Kendis whistled through her teeth. ‘You should leave Andy for the press,’ she said. ‘We’re already gunning for him on some less than savoury things.’
‘Just let me know about any of them, please?’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ she said. ‘And Baker will be a pleasure. I hate that bastard.’
‘Political or personal reasons?’
‘Speak to his wife,’ Kendis said, kissing Declan on the cheek and stepping back. ‘Ten minutes in her presence and you’ll realise what a grade-A shit he is. Stay safe.’
‘You know, you were his favourite,’ Declan said as she turned to leave. ‘He always told me that I was an idiot for losing you, and that you were the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘You were, and I was,’ Kendis grinned as she walked off. ‘See you later, Detective Inspector.’
But Declan wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was concentrating on a man, in a long black overcoat watching him from across the street.
There was something wrong there.
His phone buzzed – he picked it up, answering. It was Monroe.
‘Just read your email. Interesting news about Andy Mac,’ Monroe’s voice was raised, excited. ‘Tomorrow we’ll nail that little bastard to the wall over Sarah Hinksman.’
‘It was just Susan’s opinion,’ Declan said, his eyes still watching the man. ‘And she seemed very opinionated.’
As he spoke the man started to cross the road, walking towards him. The man was middle aged, with short, dark brown hair. He wore a pair of rimless glasses and for all intents and purposes looked like an accountant.
‘DI Walsh?’ the man with the rimless glasses asked.
Christ, I’m about to be served something, Declan thought to himself. Monroe was already talking about tomorrow’s briefing as the man approached.
‘Who’s asking?’ Declan asked to the man. Instead of replying, the man shook his right arm and out of the sleeve a telescopic baton appeared. The man had been holding it out of sight, but now it clicked into its full length.
Declan was familiar with the baton; he’d even used one himself when as an MP and as a uniformed policeman, but before he even registered what it was, the man with the rimless glasses swung up hard with it, clipping Declan’s temple, smacking his head back. As pain burst inside his skull and the iron tang of blood was tasted in his mouth, Declan found himself struck again, a rapid backhand blow that snapped his head back again, dropping the phone as the man moved down, clipping the back of Declan’s left knee with the baton, taking Declan to the floor.
Fight you bastard fight Declan screamed at himself, but the two strikes to the skull had sent the world spinning; he was off balance and unable to focus. He could feel the blood streaming down the side of his face as in the background he could hear the voice of Monroe, shouting through the phone, demanding to know what was happening.
The man with the rimless glasses moved in behind Declan, the baton now used across Declan’s neck, choking the air out of him.
‘You should leave things you don’t know about alone,’ he hissed into Declan’s ear. ‘Things that happened in the past should stay in the past.’
And with that the man with the rimless glasses dropped Declan to the ground, striking the baton rapidly several times across Declan’s arms and legs before disappearing.
Declan lay on the floor, a mass of pain, his eyes closed as he heard people running over. Some of the local kids, mainly on the street dealing small time drugs knew who he was, and knew to keep a distance. But this was different.
‘Call 999!’ one of them called. ‘He looks seriously battered.’
Declan didn’t hear what they said next as blissful unconsciousness took hold of him and he passed out.
14
Accident Or Emergency
It took fifteen minutes for the ambulance to arrive.
By then Declan had been helped to a sitting position, stemming the bleeding from the small wound on his head with a handkerchief while leaning against a tree. A couple of his neighbours were kneeling beside him, ensuring that he wasn’t concussed or in shock, and amazingly his fallen phone hadn’t been stolen.
However, as the ambulance pulled up a fleet of police cars, lights and sirens blaring also arrived on the scene. The local youths of the estate melted into the shadows; Declan didn’t blame them.
Out of one of the cars emerged Monroe, storming over to Declan.
‘Who did it?’ he asked, a mixture of both fury and concern in his tone.
‘Didn’t recognise him,’ Declan said as the paramedics started to fuss over him. ‘but he seemed to know me.’
‘Was this case related or force related?’ Monroe asked, and Declan knew immediately what the older man was suggesting. This could have been someone suggesting that Declan back away from his current line of enquiry; Andy Mac or even Susan Devington could have hired him. Maybe the man was even Government related, trying to stop the inquiry before it reached Baker. But at the same time, it could have been a friend of one of the Mile End police Declan had recently put behind bars, a devout Catholic with a grudge or even someone concerned that Declan was continuing his father’s work.
There was a long list.
Declan allowed the paramedics to lead him to the ambulance, Monroe walking behind him. His body was a mass of aches and pains right now, but not all of these were due to the attacker. Some of them were due to Susan
Devington’s overzealous sparring.
‘Get sorted and we’ll discuss this later,’ Monroe said as the ambulance doors closed. Declan raised a thumbs up, but was already feeling the shock kicking in.
So much for a quiet night at the old place, he thought to himself. Should have stayed in Hurley.
Andy Mac stood alone in the forest clearing, his car side lights turned on, allowing him to see the ground in a half lit haze. There was a hastily dug hole there, the shovel on the ground beside a mound of freshly dug dirt.
Across the hole was the flight case.
Getting it here had been nothing short of a nightmare. The flight case was heavy in itself, but adding the body inside made it even heavier, not to mention unwieldy. After the inquisitive policeman had gone Andy had managed to push the box to the elevator, and then out to the God’s Will TV Land Rover. Getting the bloody thing into the vehicle, especially without drawing notice to it was a problem but Andy was lucky in the fact that this wasn’t his first time taking the flight case anywhere. It was often used to carry equipment when doing location shots; Andy looking pensive as he looks out across the dales, Andy feeling the power of the Lord as he stands outside an old church, all the ‘money’ shots taken to make the YouTube site feel bigger than just a studio in a business centre. Because of this, Andy had learned how to lever and pulley the boxes in. Using large ratchet straps, he would attach the flight box to the front seats, wrapping the strap around both and then running the strap out of the back of the Land Rover, securing the base of the flight box. This done, he could use the straps to take the weight off his back as he climbed into the back of the Land Rover and ratcheted them to pull the flight case slowly upwards and into the boot. It wasn’t a pretty way to do it, the flight case wasn’t upright and the bumper of the Land Rover probably gained a couple more scratches, but the flight box was in, and Andy could leave.