by Jack Gatland
And with that, to a cacophony of complaints from guild members as they rose from their tables, Charles Baker placed his phone into his jacket pocket and, his work done here, turned to leave the table. However, blocking his was was the man who’d introduced him; the Right Reverend Doctor Reginald Walsingham, the current Master of Company.
‘Interesting speech,’ he whispered. ‘If we’d known you were coming to tell us off, we would have called the current Home Secretary to replace you. I mean, we invited you when you still held the role, not when you became nothing more than a backbencher.’
‘I’m far more than a backbencher,’ Charles replied with a smile. ‘You think these articles, these news reports hurt me? Things that I did when I was young and single, that I was never informed about? Follies of youth.’
‘And the reports of Devington Industries working with you on arms contracts? On the rumours of illegal arms trades? Of Rattlestone?’ Reginald raised an eyebrow. Charles laughed at this.
‘Walk into the House of Commons on any Prime Minister’s Question Time and throw a stone,’ he said. ‘I guarantee that whoever you hit on whatever side will have the same industry-related skeleton in their closet. Yes, I have made questionable choices in my career, but I have something better on my side.’ He leaned in.
‘Public sympathy.’
Reginald stared coldly at Charles for a long moment before speaking.
‘You almost sound like you killed her deliberately to gain the widower vote,’ he said.
‘Old man, that’s a very cynical view of life you have there,’ Charles replied. ‘But rumours are rumours and facts are facts.’ He looked up to the stained window where a Latin phrase was emblazoned under the image of a man seemingly arguing with another over a proffered piece of parchment.
‘Verbum Domini Manet In Aeternum’, he said. ‘Interesting motto.’
‘The word of God remains forever,’ Reginald translated. Charles nodded.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m not a pleb. I did Latin at Harrow. I was just considering that you might think about changing it.’
‘To what?’
Charles leaned in.
‘The word of law remains forever,’ he finished before patting the shoulder of the Master of Company, waving to the room of dinner guests and, with his Special Branch guards either side of him, marching determinedly out of the hall, the sound of angry diners rising behind him as he left.
‘Where to, sir?’ His bodyguard asked as Charles climbed into the back of his Ministerial car. He might have been nothing more than a backbencher to the public now, but that was for the masses to believe. He was destined for far greater things, and the party knew this; had made concessions for him.
‘The George,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I’m running late.’
The George Inn was a pub off Southwark High Street, just south of the Thames. It was an old medieval coaching inn where Charles Dickens had once drunk; although that debatable claim could probably be given to most of the pubs and taverns in London. A long, white painted, galleried and timber-framed pub, it was mainly a series of interconnected bars with a restaurant and function room upstairs. It was the latter of these that Charles, now in a thick coat, scarf and hat to disguise his identity, made his way up rickety stairs to, opening the door on his left and entering a small, quiet room with windows along one wall.
In the room were four other people, all Members of Parliament. Malcolm Gladwell was the trouble-shooter of the Conservative party, and the MP for some pokey little Berkshire dump that had been too stupid to vote him out in the last election. Stick thin and with curly ginger hair, Gladwell was a sickeningly fit, bio-hacking ultra-runner in his late forties who looked a decade younger, thanks in part to the multitude of expensive supplements he sucked down every day. Like a cockroach, he’d most likely survive everyone.
Next to him sat Tamara Banks, one of Charles’ rivals for the Conservative throne; in her early forties and resembling the bastard daughter of Cruella de Vil and Heinrich Himmler, Banks was a toxic Thatcherite, more right-wing than most of her party, a woman that had gained power and influence during the Vote Leave campaign, but was distanced enough to keep her reputation once the Brexit debacle hit everyone.
Watching out of the window was Jerry Robinson, an Ulster Democrat. Squat both in stature and intellect, and patting down his greasy, dyed-black hair as he stared at the young, attractive women in the beer garden below, Jerry was a devout creationist who didn’t believe in dinosaurs, believing that they were a test from God to see if humankind’s faith was strong enough.
Charles thought that Jerry Robinson was a test from God. That, or a rather annoying joke.
The last person in the room was a Labour MP, one that Charles had known back when he was on the red side of the Commons. Norman Shipman was old, ancient even, nothing more than a well-dressed skeleton under stretched-tight skin. He’d been an MP back when Jim Callaghan was in charge back in the seventies and every battle, every fight was etched into his face. He’d spent his entire political career on the back benches; but Charles knew from experience that this was where he did his best work.
In the shadows, in rooms like this, and with people just like the ones that Charles faced right now.
‘You’re late,’ Tamara complained. Charles didn’t bother to reply. Complaining about someone when they arrived was simply Tamara’s way of saying hello to them.
‘I see your man’s in the news again,’ Malcolm smiled. ‘If he keeps up, we might have to promote him to DCI.’
‘He’s not my man,’ Charles poured himself a wine from a bottle on the side table before turning to face the others. ‘And to be honest, I’d have preferred it if he delayed a few days.’
‘So where are we on these?’ Straight to business, Jerry drank from his bottle of tonic water. He didn’t use a glass, just the tiny bottle. It looked ludicrous.
‘Do I have permission to move on with the target I informed you of during the last session?’ Charles asked. Malcolm looked to Norman, as if waiting for guidance. Even though he was of a different political party, Norman Shipman was the obvious leading force in the room.
He nodded.
‘I call this session of the Star Chamber open,’ he said, his voice cracked with a mixture of age and far too many cigarettes.
Charles released his held breath as he leaned onto the table he sat beside.
‘As I said last time, I put forward an extremist terrorist to include in the lists,’ he spoke carefully, ensuring that he didn’t mis-speak, or understate anything that he was revealing. ‘We believe that she was radicalised in Syria two years ago and, since returning to the UK, she’s been running as part of a terrorist cell in South West London with a UK born and radicalised, London based handler.’
‘Do we have any idea on what her plan is?’ Tamara asked. Charles shook his head.
‘All I know is that after we started to investigate her, she met with my wife two days before... Before Donna hanged herself.’
‘And you think this extremist caused your wife’s death?’ Tamara seemed appalled, but Charles guessed that it was a more mawkish curiosity.
‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘And I believe that she is a danger to our Government.’
‘We shall put the name into the lists for consideration,’ Norman nodded slowly, looking to the others. ‘Any refusals?’
As the other MPs in the function room agreed to this decision one by one, Charles quickly tapped off a text on his phone under the table, sending it off before Norman looked back to him.
flick the switch
‘And the name to be added?’ Norman asked, returning Charles to the conversation.
‘Taylor,’ Charles Baker replied. ‘The extremist terrorist’s name is Kendis Taylor.’
The man with the rimless glasses sat in his car, parked on the pavement at Tudor Street, deep in the City of London. He’d been there for close to an hour now, watching the evening trade at the Wine Bar to his right as, ah
ead of him, he monitored the white bricked, arched entrance into Temple Inn. There was a large, black gate and a yellow and black barrier blocking his way into the Inns of Temple, and the guard would be in the cabin to the side of it. That said, people walked in and out all the time with no issues, and the man with the rimless glasses knew that the guards paid them no heed, especially when they dressed in overcoat, scarf and suit.
His phone beeped with a message; glancing down, he read it. The man with the rimless glasses didn’t recognise the number, but he knew who the order had come from. He’d known ever since he’d moved allegiances, since they had freed him from custody under ministerial conduct subclauses, creating this new legend, this new identity of sorts for him.
And he knew what the order meant.
Leaving the car, the man with the rimless glasses made his way through the entrance to the right of the arch, past the notice that stated that only residents could bring their dogs through and, keeping his head down he passed the guard, who didn’t even glance at him in passing, reading that night’s edition of The Evening Standard and ignoring the suited man who continued down Temple Lane, and out into King’s Bench Walk.
Turning right as he entered the large courtyard, the man with the rimless glasses carried on along King’s Bench Walk, stopping when he reached a particular door. It was late in the evening, and he knew that nobody else would be in; the target was still there though, as his car was outside, parked in a bay opposite the door. Checking to ensure that nobody was watching, the man with the rimless glasses entered the City of London police’s Temple Inn Crime Unit, otherwise known as the offices of the Last Chance Saloon.
Detective Chief Inspector Alexander Monroe was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep, scratching at his short, white beard as he stared at his laptop screen, trying to will the words on it to stop swirling around the display. Earlier that day they had drugged him while in Birmingham; a nasty little bugger named Gamma Hydroxy butyric Acid, better known as Liquid Ecstasy on the club scene, given to him by an equally nasty little bugger, Detective Inspector White, shortly before White himself had been killed like a dog in the street by Birmingham gangsters. Monroe had woken up in a basement in Beachampton, rescued by his own Detective Inspector Declan Walsh and, after wrapping up the case with the help of a large amount of bravado, bluff and a simunition grenade, Monroe had been checked over by the Divisional Surgeon, Doctor Rosanna Marcos, who had fussed over him like a bloody mother hen before allowing his team to take him back to the office. He’d sent everyone else home, saying he just wanted to finish up before leaving, but the fact of the matter was that Monroe didn’t want to go home. He didn’t feel safe anywhere outside of his own office right now.
And when he closed his eyes, he had a fear, an irrational one, that he would wake up like last time.
Handcuffed and gagged in a basement.
And so Monroe had continued to fill out reports, finding things to take his mind off the gnawing terror in the pit of his stomach. He’d already tried napping on the office sofa to see if that helped; it didn’t. He’d now started working on old files and had started down a bit of a rabbit hole—
The sound of someone walking up the stairs into the primary office stopped him.
Rising from his deck, he walked into the open plan office, watching the door. Nobody was due back, and the steps were heavy. A man’s shoes.
The man with the rimless glasses emerged through the entrance into the room, stopping when he saw Monroe watching him. Middle-aged with short, dark brown hair, the man with the rimless glasses looked more like an accountant than an assassin.
‘I know you,’ Monroe intoned. ‘We arrested you in Devington Hall.’
The man with the rimless glasses nodded, sauntering towards Monroe. He also knew that Monroe had been spiked earlier that day; he was relying on this to slow the old man’s reactions, to make him an easier target to take down. Monroe however hadn’t finished, still trying to clear his fuddled brain.
‘You’re the one that attacked Declan outside his apartment,’ he continued. The man with the rimless glasses nodded once more, still continuing towards Monroe. He flicked his right wrist, and a vicious looking extendable baton flicked out.
‘If this means anything to you, it’s nothing personal,’ he said as he raised it.
Alexander Monroe nodded, already realising that he wasn’t fast enough to stop this attack, especially with the remnants of the GHB still in his system.
‘So this is how it ends, eh laddie?’ he asked calmly. The man with the rimless glasses thought for a moment, considering Monroe’s last words.
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ he said.
And then he struck.
Acknowledgements
Although I’ve been writing for three decades under various names, these Declan Walsh novels are a first for me; a new name, a new medium and a new lead character.
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There are people I need to thank, and they know who they are. To the ones who started me on this path over a coffee during a pandemic to the ones who zoom-called me and gave me advice, the ones on various Facebook groups who encouraged me when I didn’t know if I could even do this, who gave advice on cover design and on book formatting all the way to my friends and family, who saw what I was doing not as mad folly, but as something good. Also, I couldn’t have done this without my growing army of ARC readers who not only show me where I falter, but also raise awareness of me in the social media world, ensuring that other people learn of my books, and editors and problem catchers like Maureen Webb, Chris Lee and Jacqueline Beard MBE, the latter of whom has copyedited all three books so far, line by line for me.
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But mainly, I tip my hat and thank you. The reader. Who took a chance on an unknown author in a pile of Kindle books, and thought you’d give them a chance, whether it was with this book or with my first one.
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I write Declan Walsh for you. He (and his team) solves crimes for you. And with luck, he’ll keep on solving them for a very long time.
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Jack Gatland, London, December 2020
About the Author
Hi, I’m Jack.
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I’ve been an award-winning writer several times under other names, and over the years I’ve worked with some of the biggest names in books, film and television.
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These novels however are my first time writing crime fiction.
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An introvert West Londoner by heart, I live with my family and dog just outside London.
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One day soon I might even tell you my real name.
Locations In The Book
The locations that I use in my books are real, if altered slightly for dramatic intent. Here’s some more information about a few of them…
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The Boxing Club near Meath Gardens that Johnny Lucas meets Anjli and Father Lawson in doesn’t exist, and neither do the Twins - but the location used is the current Globe Town Social Club, within Green Lens Studios, a community centre formerly known as Eastbourne House, that I would pass occasionally in my 20s.
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Hurley-Upon-Thames is a real village, and one that I visited many times from the age of 8 until 16, as my parents and I would spend our spring and summer weekends at the local campsite. It’s a location that means a lot to me, my second home throughout my childhood, and so I’ve decided that this should be the ‘home base’ for Declan. And by the time book four comes out, I’ll have completely destroyed its reputation!
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The Gooch Street Bridge exists over the River Rea, as do the two decorative arches. I would pass it often when I lived in Birmingham.
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Ambresbury Banks is indeed the name given to the remains of an Iron Age hill fort in Epping Forest in Essex, and is the north side of the Jacks Hill car parks. I would walk my dog often there when we lived in Epping, and the legends of Dick Turpin
being in the area are all true. Although, as much as the rumours of various Kray Twin victims being buried there have been around for years, I’ve never seen one!
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Saint Etheldreda’s Mission House in Poplar doesn’t exist, but is based on St Frideswide’s Mission House in Lodore Street, which was the original Nonnatus House in ‘Call the Midwife’ (set in Poplar) and written by a midwife who worked there. In 1976 Mother Margaret Faith moved the Community to Alum Rock in Birmingham, where it remains today. This connection was one of the first things I considered when choosing Birmingham as a location.
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Our Lady of the Sea Church in Deptford, however, is fictional. If there’s any basis to it in reality, it’d be St Nicholas’s Church in Deptford, where Christopher ‘Kit’ Marlowe is believed to be buried.
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The Village of Beachampton exists, and is lovely. However, the Catholic Church The Immaculate Conception of St. Mary The Virgin does not, and is loosely based on the Church of England Church of the Assumption of St Mary The Virgin. In addition, Beachampton Hall did exist, and I use the estate to create Barry Lawson’s country retreat, but the actual location doesn’t exist. Also, Beachampton has a perfectly fine cellular service!
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If you’re interested in seeing what the real locations look like, I post ‘behind the scenes’ location images on my Instagram feed. This will continue through all the books, and I suggest you follow it.