Hunter Hunted

by Jack Gatland

  Sick of this, the bald man pulled out his gun, aiming it at Johnny.

  ‘Listen, you little shit,’ he hissed. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m tired. I want to find Alex Monroe and take him into custody. And if you won’t help me, I’ll drop you here and find him myself.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to help you,’ Johnny smiled. ‘I’m guessing you have a warrant or something?’

  ‘I have this,’ the gun was aimed at Johnny’s head as the bald man started walking towards him. ‘And no scrawny bastard like you is gonna stop me passing.’

  ‘Look,’ Johnny held his hands up one last time. ‘You’re not coppers, you’re trying to kidnap someone by force and you’re threatening my life. And I’m sick of you. Turn around, jog on, and piss off out of my club.’

  The bald man cocked his gun and then stopped. From the shadows emerged two trainers, both with shotguns. And, glancing to the side where the painters were, he saw that they too had removed guns from underneath their overalls.

  ‘Nobody points a gun at me,’ Johnny hissed. ‘Last chance.’

  Laurie Hooper knew nothing.

  This was the line that had been repeatedly told to her over the last couple of weeks; that she didn’t see what she thought she saw, that she was in shock over Donna’s death and that if she tried to reveal anything that happened that night, she’d not only lose the high flying and well paid Government job that she’d been moved into immediately following Donna’s suicide, but that she’d never work in any form of employment above overnight shelf stacker ever again. If people asked her, she walked away. If people contacted her, she passed it on to Will Harrison and let him deal with it.

  Whether she agreed with this was irrelevant. This was how it worked when you played at this level of politics.

  The problem was that Laurie Hooper had seen what she thought she saw. As Donna Baker’s PA, she’d been on call the night of ‘the incident’. She’d witnessed the argument that Donna had with Will Harrison shortly before her death; but she’d also seen other things. The additional fight that she had with her husband the morning of the death. And she’d seen Donna arrange secret meetings with both Malcolm Gladwell and Kendis Taylor, the former of which was...

  Well, it was complicated.

  Laurie Hooper hadn’t mentioned this when asked, though. She was told to ‘forget everything’, and so she did.

  Besides, she liked Gladwell more than that fat prick Harrison.

  So, when a bald man in a bomber jacket arrived at her office door that evening and told her to gather her things and leave immediately, she thought that this was her time to join Donna.

  But instead, she was told as they walked hurriedly down the stairs of Portcullis House to the back entrance on Canon Row, an enclosed street that went nowhere with contractor buildings at one end next to a tall, grey, spiked barrier fence and the stark brown and white brick walls of 1 Parliament Street facing her, that there were detectives coming to speak to her, and it was better for her, better for everyone if she simply wasn’t there to speak to them.

  Clambering into a black Ford Focus, balancing her briefcase and her hastily gathered paperwork together, Laurie took a moment to check her appearance in the passenger mirror, noticing how tired and scared she looked as the car now drove down Canon Row, turning left into Derby Gate and the exit into Whitehall.

  This was usually only a way into Portcullis House, the exit out long blocked, but the bald man seemed to have some kind of sway with the armed police that guarded the gates here and as the Ford Focus approached, the barriers were raised so that the car could move out into the traffic. However, as they exited the second gate and moved onto the section of road that drove beside The Red Lion pub, Laurie was surprised to see a woman walk out of the door and stand in the road in front of them, effectively blocking the way. In her late fifties, her short, blonde hair over a charcoal grey suit, she seemed nonplussed as the bald man hammered on the car’s horn, yelling at her through the side window to get out of the way. Instead, as the armed police at the gate, seeing this altercation made their way out of the gate and towards the car, the woman simply smiled, pulling out a warrant card and waving it to the inhabitants of the car, allowing the headlights to pick it up.

  ‘DCI Bullman,’ she explained, still standing in the way. ‘Laurie Hooper, I have some questions for you. Please get out of the car.’

  ‘We’re on—‘ the bald man stopped as he realised they weren’t on Government land. And, unable to run this woman over and with armed police now surrounding his car, he turned the engine off and swore.

  It was another ten minutes before Anjli made her way from the Houses of Parliament to The Red Lion pub. The car was still there, and the bald man was arguing with Bullman, stating that Miss Hooper couldn’t speak to anyone right now, but the moment he turned to the end of the road and saw Anjli approaching, he swore again.

  ‘Hello again,’ Anjli said as she walked over. ‘I haven’t seen you since you drove away from the scene of a terrorist explosion.’

  At this comment the armed police standing around raised their rifles, and the bald man leaned against the car.

  ‘Has he been allowed to make a call?’ Anjli asked. Bullman shook her head, holding out two phones that were in her hand.

  ’Stopped them the moment they tried,’ she explained. ‘With a little help from these guys.’

  Anjli looked at Laurie Hooper, still sitting in the car, facing forward, acting as if nothing was happening here.

  ‘This is your chance to tell us everything,’ Anjli said.

  24

  Catching Up

  Declan had pulled up near the house in Woking at around half past ten that night, and stared at it through the windscreen for a good ten minutes before finding a better spot to park the car, down a side road a couple of streets away, gained by walking through a narrow pedestrian footpath with a right-turn in the middle and with a clear route out of the area. If everything went fine, it was a slightly longer walk to return to it.

  If everything went wrong, however, this could save his life.

  It was a detached five-bedroom house, with a hedge around it, a tall slatted fence at the back and a six foot high wooden gate at the front with a buzzer beside it. No camera though, which was a small blessing. Declan pressed the buzzer and waited.

  ‘Yes?’ a male voice answered.

  ‘DI Frost,’ Declan lied. ‘I’m here to speak to Miss Pearce.’

  ‘We don’t have a Pearce here,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Don’t mess me around, laddie,’ Declan put on his best Monroe voice. ‘It’s late, I’m tired, and it’s starting to rain. Open the bloody door.’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’ The door buzzed and Declan pushed it open, walking to the front door. His hair was slicked back into a severe side parting, as if he was enabling a comb over to hide a bald patch. His black glasses were on and his overcoat-well, his father’s overcoat, as his was in a train somewhere, had the lapels pulled up.

  The door opened a crack and a nervous young police officer peered out into the night, staring at Declan, still slightly in the shadows. Declan held up the warrant card momentarily, ensuring that the police officer saw the name and rank, but didn’t focus on the image with it.

  ‘Bit late, sir?’ The officer asked. Declan shrugged.

  ‘Crime waits for no man, and we’re short staffed,’ he explained. The officer laughed, opening the door wider to let Declan in.

  ‘Story of my life, sir,’ he said as Declan entered the house.

  ‘Is she still up?’ Declan asked as they walked down the main hallway. The officer nodded.

  ‘Stays up past midnight. It’s like having a bloody teenager when we try to get her to go to bed.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘There’s always two of us here, sir. One on the door and the other with Pearce. You know, to ensure she’s not trying to get messages out.’

  Declan paused. ‘Why not put CCTV in the rooms?’ he asked. ‘I mean, sure
ly that’d make things easier.’

  ‘There're cameras, but we’re not allowed sound,’ the officer explained as he walked to the living room door, opening it. ‘Part of the plea deal her lawyers are working out. You need long?’

  ‘Just a few minutes,’ Declan said as he entered the living room. It was white walled, with a full wall replaced by full-length windows that looked out into the garden, but were currently covered with slate grey slatted blinds. A large television, at least sixty inches in size, was on one wall, and underneath it was some kind of console machine and a Blu-ray player. A brown leather sofa faced it, a small glass coffee table blocking the path, and a second leather armchair sat at a ninety-degree angle to them both. Another police officer, a young female PCSO looked up at the door when they entered; the woman on the sofa continued to watch the news on the TV.

  ‘DI Frost needs to ask Miss Pearce some questions,’ the police officer beside Declan explained, and Declan prepared himself to attack; the moment Pearce looked at him, the game would be up. She knew who he really was, and all she had to do was say this to the officers in the room.

  Declan was hoping, however, that she wouldn’t.

  ‘I’ve told you all I’m willing to say right now—‘ Francine Pearce said as she turned to look at Declan, her eyes widening with recognition. ‘Oh. Now this is interesting.’

  Declan looked to the female PCSO, now rising from the leather armchair. ‘If you could both give us some time alone?’ he asked.

  The two officers made their way out of the room as Declan walked over to the recently vacated chair, sitting in it. He’d noticed that the camera in the room, a small Wi-Fi ball on a corner shelf was pointed directly at him, but considering the fact that he was impersonating an officer and had two police officers outside who had already seen his face, the moment for hiding his face was long gone, and he was happy to risk this.

  Francine Pearce was slim, in her forties and had a black, 1920s bob cut to her hair. Usually at home in business suits and dresses, it seemed strange for her to be in jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, although her makeup was still on point, her hair set perfectly. It was almost as if they took the head and the body from two different images; one glamorous and swish, the other some kind of lounge wear catalogue, and photoshopped together.

  A smile on her face, she picked up the remote and muted the television.

  ‘Last I saw you, it was on that television,’ she commented. ‘Nice little piece in the news. Apparently you’re a terrorist now or something.’

  ‘Last time I saw you, I remember you shooting me twice in the chest,’ Declan retorted. Pearce laughed.

  ‘Would have been a damn sight more impressive if Donnal had used real bullets instead of blanks,’ she replied. ‘What do you want, Walsh? I mean, it must be something pretty bloody big for you to waltz in here while the subject of a national manhunt. I wonder how many favours I’d gain if I was to call out and inform them who you are.’

  ‘If you were going to do that, you would have done it the moment you saw me,’ Declan replied. ‘But if you’d rather watch the TV with your babysitter, I can bring her right back.’

  ‘Christ, no,’ Pearce grimaced. ‘I’m bored shitless. You’re actually a welcome distraction.’ She leaned back in her seat. ‘So, go on then. Why are you here bothering me?’

  ‘Rattlestone,’ Declan replied. ‘And the death of Kendis Taylor.’

  ‘I heard she was a terrorist.’

  ‘I heard you were her source.’

  Francine Pearce stopped at that. ‘Who told you?’ she asked. Declan shrugged.

  ‘Nasir Gill, right before he was murdered by people who claimed to be Special Branch.’

  ‘Sounds like you had an exciting day,’ Francine grinned. ‘So tell me what you want to know about Rattlestone, then.’

  Declan pulled out his notepad. ‘Who runs it?’ he asked. ‘The only name anyone knows is Donna Baker, but she’s dead.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ Francine nodded. ‘The only fallout of the Davies case that I’m truly sorry for, was her finding out what a total shit her husband was.’ She leaned forward, picking up a glass of wine from the coffee table. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but to be honest I don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t drink while on duty,’ Declan replied, almost automatically. Francine choked on the wine as she laughed.

  ‘You’re on the run and excommunicated from the force,’ she said, placing the glass back down. ‘You’re using someone else’s warrant card. You’re literally cosplaying a copper right now. There’s no duty involved.’

  Declan bristled but didn’t reply, mainly because he knew she was right. Eventually Francine stopped laughing and thought about the question, furrowing her brow as she steepled her fingers together.

  ‘There’s a board of directors, but it’s all for show,’ she said. ‘Ex-army types, civil servants who got sick of flying economy, that sort of thing. They get paid a pretty penny for looking the part, but they don’t control Rattlestone. They don’t shape it. That happened after the Balkans.’

  ‘I’ve heard about that,’ Declan noted this down. ‘Was it Baker who leaked the itinerary?’

  Francine shook her head. ‘As much as he was a craven bastard, he had a kind of moral compass. If it was anyone in his department, it was Will Harrison. He was a sneaky little runt at the best of times.’

  ‘So who controls them now?’

  ‘Last I heard, they were working for the Star Chamber,’ Francine offered. ‘Black bags always were a part of their remit, after all.’

  ‘What was your connection to Rattlestone?’

  ‘What makes you think I had one?’

  ‘You hired them.’

  ‘My company hired them as security consultants,’ Francine waggled her finger. ‘Not the same as I hired them.’

  Declan leaned back in the chair, observing Francine for the moment, fidgeting, her right hand on the arm of her chair, tapping tunelessly as she spoke. ‘But you knew them,’ he said. ‘A Rattlestone employee was your driver to Devington Hall, and Shaun Donnal stated the same man on your orders beat him.’

  ‘Oh,’ Francine smiled again. ‘You mean the undercover officer, DI Frost, who you seem to play the part of right now.’

  ‘Did you know he was undercover?’

  ‘Sweetheart, I didn’t even know his name was Frost,’ Francine replied. ‘DI Frost? Check the warrant card you must hold. If his first name’s Jack, you know it’s fake.’

  ‘Why?’

  Francine shook her head. ‘Christ, didn’t you watch TV? David Jason? A Touch of Frost? He played DI Jack Frost.’ She chuckled. ‘Good show. But either way, Frost isn’t his actual name. I never found it out. And neither will you. By the time you reach him, he’ll be gone all over again. Or didn’t you think it strange that the moment that you last arrested him, he was instantly whisked away?’

  ‘I thought it strange that he’d break cover and try to beat Alex Monroe to death.’

  This genuinely surprised Francine. ‘He did it? You’re sure?’

  ‘We have him on tape.’

  ‘Sloppy,’ Francine mused. ‘He doesn’t have the sense to do something like that alone. He had to be ordered.’

  ‘Baker?’

  ‘He’s Star Chamber, so maybe. Only the Chamber gives kill orders these days.’

  ‘Sutcliffe?’

  ‘He’s police, but he has outside influences,’ Francine nodded. ‘More than happy to assist us when we needed him in Hurley, so I can see him sucking Rattlestone’s cock if it gives him a bigger pension.’

  ‘What if Baker passed the order to Will Harrison?’

  ‘Oh, I can see him screwing with orders,’ Francine sipped at her wine again. ‘And he’s been in the game since just before the 2010 election.’

  ‘Could Harrison be the genuine power behind Rattlestone?’ Declan asked. Francine almost spat out her wine as she laughed.

  ‘That would be a horror show and no mistake,’ she mused. ‘But no. Th
ey created Rattlestone a good five years before Baker and Harrison barged their way into the party. I was the one who got the two of them in, in fact.’

  ‘If you got them in, then you must know who was at the top.’

  Francine stayed silent at this.

  ‘I was told that some unknown guy in the shadows named it with a bombing and some scrabble letters,’ Declan replied. ‘All I need is his name.’

  ‘I don’t play with secrets these days,’ Francine mock chided. ‘I’m a good girl. That’s more for people like Baker and Gladwell.’

  Declan paused at the name. ‘Gladwell?’

  ‘Sickeningly fit ginger haired prick.’

  Declan pulled out his phone, noting that as he scrolled through the photos on it, Francine was nervously fighting again. He found the photo of Kendis and the red-haired man in the park. He showed it to Francine.

  ‘Is that Malcolm Gladwell?’ he asked. Francine’s eyes brightened.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Interesting. So Gladwell was talking to Kendis Taylor. I wonder why?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Declan placed the notebook away, but a gnawing sensation in his gut was telling him he was missing something.

  And then, just like that, the memory snapped back.

  Declan remembered seeing him in The Horse and Guard, sitting with a woman, her dyed blonde hair pulled back severely.

  And Kendis had gone there to see her source.

  Gladwell. Not Pearce.

  Francine was still tapping, but it wasn’t fidgeting. It was rhythmic.

  ‘You’re not the source,’ Declan muttered.

  ‘Oh, Declan,’ Francine replied, pausing the incessant tapping the moment he spoke. ‘When did I ever say that?’

  Declan stared in stark realisation at Francine Pearce. ‘Nasir named you.’

  ‘Nasir Gill worked for Rattlestone,’ Francine smiled. ‘And Nasir Gill sent you to me. To tell me who the source was.’

  Declan thought back to the moment he’d told Francine that he knew she was Kendis Taylor’s source. She never denied it, simply asking who told him. And now he’d revealed Malcolm Gladwell.