Hunter Hunted

by Jack Gatland

‘Never got the hang of these,’ he said. ‘Bloody thing’s a liability in my hands.’

  ‘You just need the training,’ Frost replied, examining another box. Billy turned to face him.

  ‘You used one on Walsh, didn’t you?’ he asked. ‘When you were undercover?’

  Frost nodded. ‘I’ve used one for years.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ Billy sat on one box. ‘I mean, the whole undercover thing? I couldn’t have done it. You were pretending to be working for Pearce, while still being an actual DI… it would have driven me mad.’

  ‘You get used to it.’

  Billy flicked the baton, losing his grip and watching it clatter to the floor beside the bookcase. Frost watched this, shaking his head.

  ‘You need to grip the end,’ he said as he flicked his arm out. His own baton, hidden up his sleeve now appeared in his hand with the ease of a motion performed many times. With a second flick, the baton extended.

  ‘That was awesome,’ Billy said. ‘Do you have a secret pocket up there?’

  ‘No, just experience,’ Frost passed the baton over. ‘You try. Grip the end and flick.’

  Billy followed the orders, but again the baton went clattering across the room, landing beside the other baton in front of the bookcase. Picking it up, Billy paused, staring at the bookcase for a moment.

  ‘You okay?’ Frost asked.

  ‘Just my pride being dented,’ Billy reluctantly passed the baton back to Frost. ‘I think I’ll stick to computers if that’s alright,’ he smiled sheepishly.

  Frost took the baton, condensing it and replacing it up his sleeve as PC De’Geer returned in the doorway.

  ‘Nobody in the loft space,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘We can’t have,’ Frost scanned the room now, looking at the boxes, the walls, the bookcase…

  ‘Maybe he didn’t come here,’ Billy replied. ‘I mean, let’s be honest. With all the subterfuge of the train to Whitby and everything, he’s hardly going to go to the first place we’d look.’

  ‘He would if there was something here for him,’ Frost muttered, half to himself.

  ‘Or maybe he got here after the police did, and it spooked him?’

  ‘Whatever the reason, I’m not wasting any more time here,’ Frost muttered, walking out of the room. ‘I want two officers outside watching this building until we catch this terrorist. Come on, Fitzwarren, we’ve got work to do.’

  Billy reached down and picked up the other baton. ‘I’m going to keep practising,’ he said as he followed Frost out. ‘I mean, practice makes perfect, right?’

  PC De’Geer took one look around and shivered.

  He couldn’t explain why, but he had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

  Shaking it off, he left the room, following the officers and detectives out of the house, closing the door behind him, and finally leaving it empty.

  After a moment’s silence, the bookcase moved, sliding slowly to the side.

  Declan emerged from the secret study, tiptoeing to the window, staring down at the police as they left.

  He’d heard everything. Every comment made by Frost and Billy, listened while kneeling against the back of the bookcase, his ear to the wood. He knew they wouldn’t stop looking for him, especially if Frost thought he’d make a career from it.

  It was time to go on the offensive.

  20

  Watch The Birdie

  Declan walked back into the secret study, finally able to breathe. He’d heard Frost’s last commands to the officers, so he knew they would post a car outside the house, and that it’d be a terrible idea right now to stand near the windows. That said, the police had kindly left half of the lights on in the house when they left, so he wouldn’t be stumbling around in the dark.

  Declan looked back to the bookcase, now half opened. He’d had plenty of time to work out his hiding strategy when the police had arrived, sliding it back into place and turning off the desk lamp, sending the room into darkness as he waited. Sitting back at the desk, Declan grabbed a large desk notepad and a pen. He needed to think fast; he didn’t know how long it would be before someone else came into the house; although that said, he hoped that the simple fact that they were sitting outside would stop any of them from returning into the building. Unless they needed the toilet, that was. Coppers always needed the toilet when on stakeout. Pushing the thought out of his head, he looked at the notepad.

  There were two issues here. The first was that they had attacked Monroe, and that the attacker, DI Frost, had been trying to look as similar to Declan as he could, in order to frame him.

  The second was that Kendis was onto a story that had forced her enemies to brand her a terrorist, and to kill her before she could tell people what she knew. Kendis knew Donna had been a signatory for Rattlestone, but Donna was dead. Kendis had nothing and her source, apparently Francine Pearce, wouldn’t risk blowing up any deal she was about to make for freedom.

  Which led to Kendis’ death, and the problem Declan had here. They could have simply destroyed her journalistic reputation and killed any trust that people had in her with the file that had been on Monroe’s laptop. There was no need to kill her.

  But someone had. Why?

  A memory came to light; something that Trix had said the last time he was in this house.

  ‘Baker wanted Kendis to be ruined, but he didn’t want her dead. That’s not his style. He also didn’t hate Monroe enough to do that. But here’s the thing. Adding what happened to Monroe to what I was doing? It was genius, but had to be done by someone who not only knew that Rattlestone had created the file, and that Baker was having me upload it. It became a moment of opportunity, to not only go for you and the Unit, but pin this on Baker.’

  Someone connected to Baker, and who had knowledge of what Rattlestone was doing.

  It could be any of them.

  Even Pearce had worked with Rattlestone when she was in charge of Pearce Associates. Somehow, Declan needed to speak to her.

  Pulling out the burner phone Trix had given him, he opened a browser, googling Balkan attack militia convoy Kendis. Nothing came up except for articles on ethnic brawls on buses and some unconnected sites. So, Declan changed his search, narrowing down the words. Eventually he found the attack that Kendis had mentioned. A piece written by her in 2015 flashed onto the screen. Declan read through the page; it was quite pedestrian, keeping simply to the facts that a militant force had attacked a Peacekeeping convoy, and in the ensuing firefight four soldiers had been killed. A link to another article commented more on this, giving a heartfelt statement by Sir Michael Fallon, the then Secretary of State for Defence, stating that justice would prevail, while a final paragraph commented that Fallon’s department, headed up by the Minister of State for the Armed Forces, Malcolm Gladwell would investigate the matter fully, while Rattlestone Securities were tendering to take over the convoys.

  There was nothing about Baker there. So, how was he involved?

  After another Google search, Declan found a Parliamentary piece on some blog site from 2014 that stated that Charles Baker was the then Parliamentary Under Secretary for Defence; it was a role that would have meant that his office was technically under Gladwell’s remit, although Baker and Gladwell might have never even met while in the same building. However, this also meant that Baker’s office would have definitely seen the schedule.

  And four soldiers were killed because of a leaked itinerary, all possibly to give a security firm with links to Baker a nice, hefty contract.

  Declan leaned back in the chair. In Parliament, you could get away with being blackmailed, or even having kids out of wedlock. But costing soldiers’ lives? If that came out, it was political suicide. Somehow, Declan had to find a way of proving a connection.

  Leaving the secret study, Declan walked over to the boxes in the room outside, finding one marked BOARDGAMES. Opening it and rummaging through it as quietly as he could, he found what he was looking for
, an old Travel Scrabble game. Walking back to the desk, he opened the box, pulling out a green felt bag and emptying the tiny white squares of letters onto the surface. Then, brushing through the pieces, he laid the ones he needed out into a line.

  R A T T L E S T O N E

  Moving them around, he realised that although he could think up a few six or even seven letter words, he couldn’t think of any word that used all eleven. Even googling anagram solver and typing the word into a particular site found nothing larger than nine letters.

  So not a known word then. A name perhaps?

  Declan leaned back from the table, staring at the random collection of words. He didn’t even know if all eleven were used here. Gathering the eleven letters together, he placed them into the green bag and put it beside Frost’s stolen warrant card.

  There was a noise outside; quietly making his way over to the window, he peeked out. It was just another police car arriving, most likely the next shift. Returning to the desk, Declan stopped, reached into his pocket and pulled out the Micro SD card that he’d taken from Nasir’s camera earlier that day. They’d never searched him when he was arrested, and therefore they’d never found it.

  Quietly and carefully, Declan went downstairs, methodically making his way over to the side of the living room, and to the waist-high side cupboard beside the drinks cabinet. Opening it up, he found a digital camera nestled at the back of a low shelf, a good decade old and probably unused for years. Opening it up, Declan saw it had a Micro SD slot. Slipping Nasir’s card in and closing up the compartment, Declan opened up the back, replaced the AA batteries and turned the camera on. It wasn’t a touch screen, the buttons and dials on the camera moving through the options, but Declan could open the photo library on the card after a couple of attempts. The last five or six images were taken in the shopping centre, general photos of people and places, although a couple at the end were closeups of the team that had been sent to take Nasir out. One of them, when zoomed to its maximum, showed a gun, likely the same gun that killed Nasir in what looked to be a shoulder holster. Declan took the burner phone and, unable to transfer the image in a traditional sense, simply zoomed in and used his phone’s camera to take a picture of the screen.

  Starting at the first photo on the card, a countryside shot that looked like it was taken the day before, and then scrolling through the photos on the card, Declan scrolled through images of Brompton Cemetery; artful shots that seemed more for magazine articles than for keeping, and images of the street outside, including the image that was now plastered across every newspaper in the country; the stranger in the cap and aviators, now known to be Declan. From the way the images flowed, it looked like Nasir had taken a position across the road to take a shot of Declan before entering the cemetery after him, continuing to take shots as he did so. This was shown by images of Kendis talking with Declan now appearing on the photo feed, taken at a distance and before Nasir showed himself.

  Scrolling even further forward, Declan trawled through a couple of street photos—

  Declan stopped scrolling.

  On the screen was an image of Kendis Taylor, in the early evening and sitting on a bench in a City of London park, arguing with a skinny, red-headed man in a suit who sat beside her. It was taken from a distance, but it was definitely her. And the man seemed familiar, as if from television. Declan zoomed in and took a photo of this image too. These latter images gave the impression that Nasir had been tailing her after she’d spoken with him and Declan. Which, if he’d been working for Rattlestone, was incredibly likely. Nasir and Kendis must have parted ways an hour or two before she died though, and Declan rubbed at his chin as he started flicking back through them one more time. Why did Nasir follow Kendis, and why did he stop?

  Placing the camera down, Declan stretched, ensuring that the car out front couldn’t see him. He was hungry, and irritated by so many questions that he couldn’t answer and so snuck his way into the kitchen, grabbing some bread, ham and butter from the fridge, making a quick sandwich that he ate as he returned upstairs. This was the safest place for him; the police had already examined the location, and they were convinced that nobody was inside. All he had to do was keep quiet and decide what to do next.

  He changed out of the cheap clothes.

  ’So where exactly are we, and why the hell did we have to walk here?’ Bullman rubbed at her ankle as Anjli looked back to her.

  ‘First, I don’t have a car, Ma’am. And second, I didn’t want this visit being seen by anyone.’

  ‘Any reason?’ Bullman was now stretching her shoulders, shaking some life back into them.

  ‘What, apart from me not trusting anyone in there and all my friends are on the run?’ Anjli almost laughed. ‘Currently, the only person I trust is you, Ma’am.’

  “Well, that’s reassuring,’ Bullman looked up at the building they were now standing outside of. At the junction of Whitehall Place and Whitehall Court, it was an opulent, white brick neo-gothic building that merged with the surrounding offices and hotels seamlessly, with the corner entrance an elaborate arch over a double wood and glass doorway. A brass plaque to the left of it read

  NATIONAL LIBERAL CLUB

  ‘Is he okay?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Monroe,’ Bullman continued. ‘I’m guessing you’ve been in touch with him.’

  Anjli shook her head. ‘I’ve got an idea where he is, but I’ve not seen or heard from him since he awoke.’

  ‘Is that normal?’ Bullman watched Anjli, who shrugged.

  ‘To be honest, nothing we’re doing right now is normal.’

  ‘And what are we doing here?’

  ‘We’re seeing a friend,’ Anjli replied. ‘Well, not a friend, but a friendly. And it’s not technically about Monroe’s attack, so I didn’t want to mention it until we arrived.’

  ‘Of course,’ Bullman replied as Anjli walked to the right-hand side door, pulling it open. ‘I mean, I’ve worked with your boss and your Divisional Surgeon before, how could I assume that you’d be any different?’

  Entering through the doors, they turned to the left where, in an alcove marked ‘Enquiries’, an ornate clock above it, was the doorman, currently behind a chest-high counter.

  ‘Is Anthony Farringdon in?’ Anjli showed her warrant card. ‘We were hoping to have a chat.’

  ‘He’s upstairs in the bar,’ the doorman replied. ‘I could check?’

  ‘Please,’ Anjli smiled her most winning smile. ‘DS Kapoor and DCI Bullman.’

  ‘And Anthony Farringdon is?’ Bullman asked as the doorman moved to his phone, calling upstairs.

  ‘He worked at Westminster for years,’ Anjli explained. ‘Amazing memory, knows everything. He helped us with the Victoria Davies murder, and I’m hoping he can answer some questions about the Star Chamber.’

  ‘The what Chamber?’

  Anjli grimaced. ‘Ah yeah, I forgot you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Mister Farringdon will see you now,’ the doorman smiled, placing the phone back on its cradle. Anjli smiled back and with Bullman following walked towards the end of the entranceway where the hallway opened into a large rotunda, a huge spiral staircase that ran along the white marbled wall in front of them, an ornate marble bannister circling up alongside as it rose towards a beautifully designed glass ceiling.

  ‘I’ve been here before,’ Bullman said as they started up the stairs. ‘Sherlock Holmes Society thing. I was a guest speaker.’

  ‘Really?’ Anjli was delighted at this. ‘I’m a member of that—‘

  ‘Hated every second,’ Bullman replied, effectively killing the potential bonding session. ‘So. Tell me about the Star Chamber.’

  Billy sat at his desk, alone in the office. He was alone because everyone else was outside, watching Bradbury hold some kind of press conference that was live on BBC News. Billy knew this because he was watching it on the screen. Behind Bradbury, Sutcliffe could be seen to the side, watching him like a bodyguard. />
  ‘I repeat, we do not believe that Mister Walsh is a dangerous man, but suggest that anyone who sees him contact the police immediately,’ Bradbury was saying. ‘We do not know if they radicalised him before or after joining the police—‘

  Billy turned off the browser, effectively ending the video. Bradbury was just like the others, already convinced that Declan was the villain here. The actual thought of doing any police work was forgotten. Even Anjli and Bullman were elsewhere, working on what was more likely to be a far more interesting case.

  But what Billy was doing was important. He was solving a heinous crime.

  He looked to his notebook, open on the desk where written at the top of the page was the note that Kendis had on her when she died.

  TOTTERS LANE

  FOB C

  What did it mean? Totters Lane was a small Shoreditch street that’s only claim to fame was that it was wiped out during a German bombing raid in World War Two. But as for the other…

  Reaching over to his jacket, he pulled it open, revealing the extendable baton that he’d taken from the floor of Declan’s house. It looked so unobtrusive there, but Billy knew that someone looking like Declan had beaten Monroe with such a weapon.

  Grabbing a clear bag from his desk, he wrapped the plastic around the handle and pulled it out of his jacket pocket. It measured about two feet, with a handle of around eleven inches. Carefully placing it in an envelope, Billy sealed it up, writing a name on it. This done, he rose from the desk, grabbing his coat.

  It was time to put things in motion.

  21

  Chamber Of Stars

  Anthony Farringdon was in his usual spot in the upstairs bar; a high-ceilinged room, with red marble pillars running along each side, the space between each one either filled with the green wallpaper of the wall, or revealing a floor to ceiling bay window complete with green drapery. Glass fronted mahogany trophy cabinets were beside several of the pillars, and beside a bust of William Gladstone was a low table with three dark green leather armchairs, one of which currently held Farringdon as he rose to greet his guests. Wearing the same military blazer that he wore the last time he met Anjli, buttoned over a pair of dark trousers, white shirt and military tie in a Windsor knot, Farringdon was better dressed than either of the detectives that faced him, his white hair neatly parted to the right.