by Jack Gatland
‘Ma’am,’ Anjli nodded. ‘May I ask what brings you to Temple Inn?’
‘Came to act as Walsh’s Federation Rep, but it seems like he wasn’t interested in going that route,’ Bullman shrugged.
‘And now she’ll be buggering off back to Birmingham,’ Sutcliffe sneered. Bullman, however, simply smiled at this.
‘I think I’ll be hanging round for a while longer,’ she said lightly, looking at her fellow DCI. ‘After all, when you eventually find him. I’m still his Federation Rep. And while you’re all running around in circles, someone needs to keep hunting DCI Monroe’s attacker.’
‘Dat was Walsh!’ Frost snapped, his nose still clogged. ‘He confessed do id!’
Bullman looked at the man with the rimless glasses.
‘First off, Detective Inspector Frost, as a superior rank you either refer to me by the terms ‘ma’am’, or ‘Guv’, or you use my rank if you can even say it properly right now. And second, as one of the four people in the room, I can state with some clarity that the one thing that Declan Walsh didn’t do was confess to that attack.’ She looked to Anjli.
‘Do you know who did it?’ she asked.
‘I have some thoughts,’ Anjli replied, looking at Frost as she spoke.
‘Excellent,’ Bullman patted Anjli on the back. ‘We can work the case together.’
‘Go wild,’ Sutcliffe muttered. ‘And while you’re at it, see if you can find the dopey bastard too, as he seems to have disappeared with his Doctor and DC Davey—‘
‘Sir? Did you need me?’ Davey, standing in a group of forensics officers to the side, wearing their PPE suits looked up. Sutcliffe almost did a double take.
‘How long have you been here?’ he asked. Davey shrugged.
‘Oh, I dunno, about an hour?’ she suggested. ‘I guess it’s hard to see us properly when the suits are on.’
Sutcliffe looked back to Bullman.
‘Are you still here?’ he snapped. ‘Well, go on then! Go solve this bloody case!’
With a final, withering look at Billy, Anjli and Bullman left the scene. Frost, watching this painfully blew his nose, staring down at the blood and mucus in the ruined handkerchief before turning to Billy.
‘She’s pissed at you,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t dink you’re friends adymore.’
Billy shrugged.
‘I didn’t join the force to make friends,’ he said. ‘I joined to make a difference.’
Frost looked to Sutcliffe, who smiled.
‘You’re a good copper, Fitzwarren,’ he said before walking back to the building, finishing over his shoulder. ‘I can see a glorious future for you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Billy said, seemingly grateful. He looked back to Frost. ‘So, what now?’
‘Now we hunt a terrorist,’ muttered the man with the rimless glasses.
Monroe opened his eyes when the taxi pulled to a stop.
‘Jesus woman,’ he groaned. ‘Not here!’
‘Yes, here,’ Doctor Marcos replied, pulling the wheelchair out of the taxi and, after paying the driver she stared up at the entrance to the Globe Town Boxing Club. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, and you need a day’s rest before you fight.’ She smiled. ‘And besides, haven’t you seen Rocky movies? They always use a gym like this when they recover from the massive beating they take in Act Two.’ Grabbing the handles, she wheeled Monroe through the doors and into the boxing club.
It was an old building, but it seemed to be going through a small renovation as they entered. The walls, the paint at one time stained with nicotine and peeling was now gone, sanded down and primed for a more colourful layer; the heavy bags and the weights were brand new, still in their wrapping as they awaited their installation, and the ring had been given new canvas and ropes. Even the smell, the musty taint of sweat and leather seemed to be missing from the gym.
One decorator looked up as they walked past. He was wearing old clothes but no overalls, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with an Eastern European accent.
‘Not open,’ he said, waving back to the door. ‘Come back later.’
‘We’re looking for Johnny or Jackie,’ Doctor Marcos said politely. ‘I’d prefer the former though.’
Known around East London as a kind of modern-day version of the Krays, Johnny and Jackie were, to many, an enigma. They famously never appeared together in public; an agreement allegedly made when they first started so that if one was killed, the other could gain revenge for them. When people turned up to speak with them, they never knew which of the twins they’d meet with, as Johnny and Jackie changed around their schedules constantly to ensure that targeted attacks were impossible. They looked identical. They wore almost identical clothing. Their haircuts were the same.
The problem was, though that Johnny and Jackie weren’t twins; they were one person with a very particular multiple personality disorder. There was ‘Johnny’, the rational, business-like one and ‘Jackie’, the psychopath.
There was a reason Doctor Marcos wanted the Johnny persona. He was more likely to listen to sense and broker a deal. The Jackie persona was likely to bury you in the foundations of a motorway.
‘Oh, you would, would you?’ A voice spoke through the door to the back room and a man emerged, walking out behind a meaty looking man in his forties, tracksuit over a tank top and his hair gelled back. The man who spoke wore a black suit and deep blue shirt, currently open. His salt and peppered hair was blow dried back, giving him a little quiff at the front, and he bore an expression of fury.
Shit, thought Doctor Marcos. The Jackie persona.
Jackie however stopped when he saw Monroe in the wheelchair. He stared at him for a long moment, taking in the scene.
And then he laughed.
‘Oh Jesus, old man,’ he said, holding his side. ‘I didn’t realise it was my birthday.’
Monroe forced a weak smile in response, and Doctor Marcos stepped forward, bringing Jackie’s focus back to her.
‘We need your help,’ she said. ‘People want to kill him.’
‘Aye,’ Jackie grinned, but bore more resemblance to a shark baring its fangs. ‘And I’m on that list too.’
He stopped.
‘I know you,’ he blurted, delight crossing his face. ‘You’re that forensics bitch! The one who did the Tancredi tea party!’
Doctor Marcos nodded. The reason she was banned from crime scenes for another five months, in fact the reason DCI Alex Monroe was the only person in the police force who would hire her, was because of her unconventional ways when working out murders. The Tancredi murders was one such case; they tasked her with working out the timeline of how four Liverpudlian crime lords killed each other while sitting around a circular table. Nobody else had worked it out, but she’d achieved it by convincing her assistant, then-DS Joanne Davey to steal the bodies from the morgue one night and spirit them back to the crime scene, sitting them in their original seats to recreate the moment.
Four dead, naked crime lords being manipulated like dolls did not go down well with the authorities. Davey had been demoted. Doctor Marcos would probably have been fired if it wasn’t for the fact that she’d solved the case.
‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘I have that honour.’
‘I’m a big fan of taxidermy,’ Jackie continued. ‘When I was a kid, my uncle took me to this weird bloody place in Cornwall. They had stuffed kittens in dresses, and rabbits in suits. Little dioramas named Kitten’s Tea Party or Bunny’s First Day At School. Scared the right royal shit out of me. Probably made me the man I am now.’
He considered this.
‘I always wanted to make one of my own, you know, out of my enemies.’
‘Day’s still young,’ Doctor Marcos replied. ‘Have at it, and all that.’
‘I like you,’ Jackie said, walking over to Monroe, peering down at him. ‘I hate him, but I like you. What happened anyway?’
‘Someone slammed my head repeatedly into a glass window until it broke,’ Monroe replied, a wry
smile on his face. ‘Problem you have though, is that technically you’re one of the suspects.’
‘What, because you arrested one of my men?’ Jackie was referring to Danny Martin, recently arrested in Beachampton. ‘If I wanted you hurt, I’d do it right.’
‘I know,’ Monroe tried to sit up in the chair. ‘I saw the bastard who did it.’
‘And this is why you’re here?’ Jackie looked back to Doctor Marcos. ‘Let me guess. The attacker’s connected and you can’t touch him.’
‘A bit like that,’ she replied. ‘We need to stay off the grid for a day or so. Give Alex a chance to recover, to let the swelling on his brain drop. I figured that because of your past association, this would probably be one of the last places they’d look.’
Jackie nodded, looking back to Monroe. ‘I seem to remember though, that the last time we spoke, you said you would tear down this poxy little boxing club and stick me behind bars so fast I wouldn’t even have time to change shirts.’
‘And I seem to recall that you replied with an offer to gut me like a pig and lace me into one of your heavy bags.’ Monroe looked back to the new heavy bags being installed. ‘Seems a shame to damage these nice new ones, though.’
‘I think you’ll find that was Johnny that said that,’ Jackie said. ‘I would have done it there and then.’
He looked back to Doctor Marcos.
‘I could help, I suppose,’ he mused. ‘But what’s in it for me?’
‘Haven’t we done enough for you?’ Doctor Marcos actually laughed at this. ‘We just cleared the way for a takeover of North London and Birmingham for you, or whoever you set up. We showed you a traitor in your midst and stopped their attempt to take over your territory. I’d say you owe us right now.’
Jackie shrugged. ‘I need a little more,’ he said.
Doctor Marcos leaned in.
‘I’m a forensic examiner and Divisional Surgeon,’ she whispered. ‘I know how to kill a man and never leave a mark. How to torture them to the point of death and then bring them back to life. Years of experience working with bodies and murder scenes. More knowledge than the average hitman. And I’ll owe you.’
Jackie Lucas held out a hand with a smile.
‘Welcome to my home,’ he said.
18
Doubleback
It took Declan around fifteen minutes to make it eastwards to St Pauls. He’d ambled, ensuring that he didn’t stand out, keeping his collar high and his head low. Wearing a suit and coat he looked like most of the surrounding people; city folk out for a late lunch, or simply taking a break from their offices. Which in a strange way was exactly what he was doing.
As he walked, he made plans. Declan was a copper through and through, but his time in the Special Investigations Service of the Military Police had pitted him against some of the best operatives in the armed forces, and hunting them down he’d seen the tricks and routes that they took to avoid capture. Now he was gamekeeper turned poacher, these evasion techniques were now ones that he was going to utilise.
The first plan was to set a false trail. That was easy, but more complicated than it should be. He had to give away a series of clues to his location without being too obvious. And, while doing that, he needed to work out where his actual destination was.
Nasir Gill had said that Francine Pearce was under house arrest. He could find the location somehow; he was sure of it. And then he had to get in somehow and speak to her. He needed to gain information on Rattlestone, confirm that something connected the murder of Kendis to Charles Baker.
Who for some reason was his ally in this.
Was he wrong? Was this not connected to Baker? He knew without a doubt that Rattlestone had killed Kendis, and most likely because of her investigation, but now he needed to prove it. Monroe was in the wind too; most likely hunting his own nemesis. Declan wished he could help his mentor somehow but knew that if he did, he’d be bringing a most likely national terrorist manhunt with him.
A manhunt that he now needed to evade.
There was a sportswear shop near St Pauls; Declan walked in, quickly picking up a pale grey zip hoodie, some black tracksuit bottoms, a baseball cap and a dark brown fake suede bomber jacket. He bought cheaply, avoiding known brands, picking a small grey backpack as his last purchase. The total was just over fifty pounds for all the items and they were placed into a large carrier bag. Declan used some notes he’d taken from his father’s book safe the previous day. He couldn’t believe that it was only yesterday; so much had happened since then.
Now with these items, Declan moved quietly into an opticians two doors down, finding the chunkiest pair of black men’s glasses on display and quietly pocketing them as he left. Many opticians had no security for the testing frames, and nobody called out after him, unaware of the simple theft. As he progressed into St Paul’s Churchyard, he rubbed at the lens of the glasses, rolling off the sticker that gave the cost of the frames, placing the frames into his pocket as he walked into his final destination, an outdoors shop specialising in camping equipment.
Here he was less restrained, actively smiling and talking to the receptionist, asking her suggestions for a small sleeping bag and a medium-sized rucksack. He claimed it was for his daughter, going to Hull University and, when he’d picked two suitable items, some men’s socks and a fold up rain cover, he placed the shopping bag and camping items into the rucksack, secured it, placed it over his shoulder and paid for the items with his credit card.
He knew that this would be found. He wanted it to be found.
From there, Declan caught a black cab, paying once more with his card to Kings Cross Station. Pulling up at the front, Declan thanked the driver, ensuring that he saw Declan’s face, and made his way into the main concourse, recently renovated with a white framed diagram roof that arched over the open space below and the shops and upper level food outlets to the left. He walked over to a payphone, one of the few seemingly left in London and, popping a pound coin in, dialled a number.
Jess answered on the third ring.
‘Dad,’ she said, her voice worried. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, sweetheart,’ he replied, looking around as he spoke. ‘Is your mum there? It’s important,’
There was a pause, and then Lizzie’s voice came onto the line. ‘Where are you?’ she asked as the station announcer went off, giving out the platform and time of the next train to Ipswich.
‘Look, I can’t explain anything, but you have to trust me,’ Declan replied. ‘You’re going to hear some bad things. Untrue bad things. I’m being framed and I’m on the run.’
‘This isn’t a joke, is it?’ Lizzie said. ‘I saw about Alex Monroe. Is this to do with that?’
‘Partly,’ Declan replied cautiously. ‘I can’t really talk. I’m on my way to Whitby. Pack some things and get out of there with Jess.’
‘I’ll go to—‘
‘Don’t tell me where you’re going!’ Declan exclaimed. ‘They might hear this. People died today because of them.’
‘Did they take Jessica’s phone?’ Now Lizzie’s voice was darkening with anger.
‘Yeah,’ Declan looked around again, worrying that he’d spent too long on here already. ‘Get out, lie low. Tell Jess I love her lots, and I’m sorry.’
Declan placed the phone back on the cradle, quickly continuing through the crowd to one of the self-service ticket machines. Here, he bought two tickets; the first, a London Travelcard was bought with cash, while the second, an open return to Whitby was paid for with his card. Now moving into the middle of the concourse, Declan checked up at the giant screens that displayed train arrivals and departures. The next train to Whitby wasn’t showing, so Declan walked over to a blue jacketed station official, a young man with floppy blond hair who leaned against a wall.
‘Excuse me,’ Declan said as the blond man sprung to life. ‘How do I get to Whitby?’
The station officer looked up at the giant screens above them.
‘You’re cu
tting it close,’ he said as he looked at his watch. It matched the screen above, stating that it was twenty past two. ‘Catch the two thirty to Northallerton, yeah? Then change to Thornaby, and there you get a third train to Whitby. I hope you’ve got a book though as it’s a bloody long journey.’
Declan thanked the official and ran for the platform. He needed to not only catch the train, but fulfil other criteria. Sliding his ticket into the machine, he made his way to the train platform, noting that the tracks the other side were empty with a queue of people already waiting for whatever train was arriving. Entering the carriage through the sliding doors, he made his way up it, nodding to people as he passed, knocking a couple accidentally with the rucksack and apologising. Basically, he did everything that a man running from the police and trying to keep a low profile shouldn’t do.
At the end of the carriage was an empty toilet. Sliding in, Declan locked the door behind him, opening up the rucksack. Now time was of the essence, as he needed to be off the train before it left, and according to his watch he had less than five minutes.
Quickly and carefully he pulled off his jacket and suit, keeping his shirt on as he removed everything from the pockets. This done, he now pulled on the black jogging bottoms and zip hoodie, zipping it up over the shirt, and letting the hood flop over the collar of the brown suede bomber jacket as he pulled it on. He quickly placed his personal items into the grey backpack that now rested on his shoulder, pulled on his shoes and the baseball cap, and frantically pushed his old clothes into the rucksack, closing it up. Then, with the black-framed glasses now on, he exited the toilet, placed the rucksack onto the luggage rack and continued down the carriage. Now he was a completely different man; the lenses in the glasses were clear, but distorted his face, the cap hiding his hair. As a train pulled up on the other platform, Declan exited his train, walking across to the other side and, as the travellers now at their last destination emerged from the carriages, he joined them in walking back to the barriers. In the rush of commuters, he slid his Whitby return ticket into the machine, passing through as the gates opened. Nobody would realise that he had used it, and only when they found the rucksack would they learn that he’d changed his identity.