Hunter Hunted

by Jack Gatland

  As they approached the glass office, using their visitors passes to enter through a turnstile, Billy saw Bradbury rise from his desk, walking out to greet them.

  ‘Please, come in,’ he said as Billy and Sutcliffe entered, sitting in two offered chairs the other side of Bradbury’s desk.

  ‘I’m getting pressure from Charles Baker,’ Bradbury started, the formalities and pleasantries over. ‘He wants to know what’s happened with the Declan Walsh investigation.’ He looked down at a sheet of paper. ‘He’s also written a rather lengthy letter to me which states in no uncertain terms that he believes Declan isn’t a terrorist, and that if he proves to be correct at the cost of a good man’s career, then he will make it his life’s purpose to bring down whoever caused it.’

  ‘Baker’s got an unpleasant taste in characters,’ Sutcliffe muttered. ‘Walsh confessed to us before he escaped.’

  ‘Not to being a terrorist, sir,’ Billy countered. ‘Just to seeing Kendis Taylor.’

  ‘Who’s a terrorist,’ Sutcliffe argued. Billy went to speak again, but Bradbury raised a hand.

  ‘This is the problem,’ he said to Sutcliffe. ‘You were put in charge, against my wishes I’ll add, to helm this department. How’s that going for you?’

  ‘I’ll admit, it’s been challenging,’ Sutcliffe shifted in his seat. ‘There’s a lot of loyalty there.’

  ‘And yet one of his old partners sits beside you,’ Bradbury looked to Billy. ‘How do you see things?’

  Billy was now the one to shift. ‘The Guv’s right,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of misguided loyalty. I don’t know why DCI Monroe ran from the hospital with Doctor Marcos, but it doesn’t look good for him. Declan running hasn’t helped his case, either. Anjli’s going rogue, and the DCI from Birmingham, Bullman? She seems to enable it.’

  ‘But you’re loyal,’ Bradbury said.

  ‘I’m loyal to the law, sir,’ Billy replied.

  Bradbury pulled out a sheet of paper, looking down at it. ‘Doctor Marcos has been leaving messages for Walsh,’ he said. ‘Land lines, voicemails, emails, everywhere. Same three phrases. Royal Bastard. Gallifrey. Dentist. Do you know what it means?’

  Billy nodded. ‘I do, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s the location and time tomorrow for a meeting. If we plan it right, we can get them all.’

  ‘Them all?’

  ‘If Doctor Marcos is sending Declan cryptic messages, sir, I think we can safely agree that she’s playing for the wrong team,’ Billy looked to Sutcliffe, who nodded.

  ‘The boy’s right,’ he said, reaching for his phone. ‘I’ll contact my team and…’ he started checking through his pockets. ‘My phone…’

  ‘Did you leave it in the car?’ Billy asked as Sutcliffe rose, still searching his coat. He looked to Bradbury. ‘If we’re done here?’

  Bradbury nodded. ‘Go find your phone, Detective Chief Inspector,’ he replied, looking to Billy. ‘I need to speak to DC Fitzwarren quickly about a Detective Sergeant exam you’ve applied him for.’

  As Sutcliffe left at speed to find his phone, Bradbury looked to Billy.

  ‘Now, how about you tell me what’s really going on,’ he said, coldly.

  Sutcliffe had just reached the foyer as Billy, running, caught up with him waving a phone.

  ‘It was on Bradbury’s floor, under the chair,’ he said as Sutcliffe, taking the phone, opened it up, checking the apps.

  ‘You didn’t look at it, did you?’ he asked. Billy frowned.

  ‘It’s passcode and fingerprint locked,’ he replied. ‘I couldn’t if I wanted to.’

  Sutcliffe nodded at this, putting the phone away. ‘I have a meeting to get to,’ he said. ‘You can get home from here?’

  ‘I’m returning to the office,’ Billy replied. ‘I have a lead I want to follow up on.’

  Sutcliffe muttered some kind of approving sound and walked over to the Mercedes, getting into the back seat. Billy watched it leave, walking over to a waste bin on the pavement.

  There, he rubbed at his thumb, rolling off a thin sheet of silicone.

  This removed, he tossed it into the bin and started walking towards Blackfriars Bridge.

  Declan arrived back in London after midnight.

  Originally, Declan had considered driving to his old Tottenham apartment; he still had the lease, and it ran out later that week, but there was the police part of this mind, that soft, practical voice that told him what to do that pointed out that if they’d looked for him in Hurley, they’d look for him in Tottenham. The best thing to do right now would be to go to ground, to work out what the next stage was in his plan.

  He needed to revisit the crime scene.

  He’d driven into Chelsea, parking Karl’s borrowed Peugeot on Kempsford Gardens, facing the north entrance of Brompton Cemetery. He sat for a moment, the engine off, staring at the wall across the road, still finding it hard to believe that it wasn’t even two days ago that he’d met with Kendis in there for the last time.

  When she was still alive.

  He knew the cemetery didn’t open until 7am, a good six or so hours away, so he settled into the seat, pulling the lapel of his coat up as he closed his eyes. But, after half an hour of small shifts in posture and occasional loud noises outside, he gave up sleeping for the moment and exited the car, stretching his legs. The streets were quiet at this time of the morning, and so Declan risked a walk, a patrol of sorts of the cemetery, as if by doing this, he might get a better idea into what was going on.

  Moving out onto the Brompton Road, Declan turned left, walking with the wrought iron bars of the cemetery to his right, looking through them at the gravestones and markers that were only feet away from him as he continued on. A few yards on he turned right at the crossroads, now heading south on the Finborough Road, where modern designed red brick apartments stood next to four-storey Victorian terraces. Passing the now closed Finborough Arms, Declan followed the road to the right as it split off, now walking down Ifield Road as he considered everything he knew so far.

  Kendis had been scared, and had received a call to martyrdom letter through her door, a sheet now believed to have been sent by the now dead Nasir Gill. Who it also seemed worked for Rattlestone and had been taking photos of Kendis during the day.

  Somehow, she’d found her way back into Brompton Cemetery that night. Why? Walking around it now, Declan could see that there was no way that you could simply stroll in. Only someone with a key could get in. So who had a key? He remembered a line she had said, when they met.

  ‘Don’t belittle the dead. Some of Westminster’s biggest and brightest have plots here. That’s the one for the Gladwells. Over there is the Harrison family.’

  Malcolm Gladwell, who she’d met with earlier in the same day, and could have been her source, now that Francine Pearce was out of the picture. And Will Harrison, the right hand puppet master of Charles Baker, and most likely moving on the head of Rattlestone, vying for the top position.

  So Kendis had met with Declan, then met with Gladwell and then returned to the cemetery. Had she gained a key from him?

  By now Declan was emerging out of Ifield Road onto the Fulham Road, facing a twenty-four-hour service station. Knowing that they would have cameras, Declan hid his face as he turned right, heading westwards along the north side of the road, passing the southern entrance to Brompton Cemetery, a wrought-iron gate flanked by two old style red phone boxes. It was dark, but he could make out the plaque on the other side of the railings, in particular the words at the bottom.

  Paid for by the Friends of Brompton Cemetery

  Walking on, Declan considered this. Some kind of organisation like that would have ways to enter and exit the park whenever they wanted, and he was sure that the bigger plot holders would likely have a say in the FOBC—

  FOB C. The note that Kendis had in her possession when she died. She knew this already, that the person she was hunting was connected. Was that why she met Declan there? Was she, like the night before at The Horse and Guar
d, using him as a reason to scope the place out?

  Talking of The Horse and Guard, Declan realised as he continued his circuit that the bombed out building was only another hundred yards down the road; he hadn’t figured out how close it had been the night before. Anyone there would have been able to walk in or out of the cemetery in moments. Was that why Gladwell had met there? Was he nearby, able to enter and exit Brompton Cemetery as he pleased?

  They had boarded the windows over, the external frontage burned away and blackened. Declan had seen on a news report that nobody had been injured in the explosion, which was still being classed as an accident. Declan resisted the urge to shudder. It had definitely been no accident. Neither had the meeting inside been an accident the night before, where Kendis and Malcolm Gladwell had spoken.

  Gladwell, again.

  Gladwell, who was in the Star Chamber with Charles Baker.

  Gladwell, who had been Charles Baker’s boss during the Balkan massacre, even if they didn’t talk during that time.

  Gladwell, who was Kendis Taylor’s whistle-blower.

  But why?

  By now Declan had moved on past the burned out pub, finding his chest tightening as he’d stood there, the moment of the blast striking him again. He continued westwards, towards Stamford Bridge, the legendary home of Chelsea Football Club. Walking past it, he continued along the Fulham Road, passing Fulham Broadway Underground Station and the shopping centre built around it, but he wasn’t paying attention to his location anymore. By now he was re-evaluating everything that he’d been told and shown during the investigation. He was so convinced that Frost, Sutcliffe and Baker were behind it, that he hadn’t considered the alternatives. He’d taken Baker’s arrival after Monroe’s beating as a moment of gloating. But what if it wasn’t?

  Now he was heading north, zigzagging along the back streets, making his way back to the Brompton Road. Turning right, he walked back to where his car was parked, climbing back inside, returning to his overnight observation. It was now almost three in the morning, and Declan felt tired enough for a nap. Shutting his eyes, he tried to drown out the noise of the streets, and the gnawing fear inside his stomach.

  What if it was a genuine offer of aid?

  27

  Friends Of The Dead

  Will Harrison hadn’t slept well that night.

  After retaining Laurie Hooper, Will had sat in on her debrief; well, more of an interrogation, if he was being brutally honest. He’d made his way to the Rattlestone safe house in Pimlico where his man had taken her, and after a couple of hours had allowed her to leave, safe knowing that she wouldn’t be talking to anyone else soon; she’d realised very early in the debrief how easy it was for her to disappear and had been incredibly helpful in her responses.

  She’d admitted that she’d seen Donna Baker arguing with Will the day that she died, but Will repeatedly stated that she was mistaken, that this hadn’t happened, and that she’d be destroyed if she ever suggested this to anyone. She claimed she had told no one, even the Indian police officer, and after the first plea, Will had believed her. What he hadn’t known, and what he learned through the debrief, was that Donna had also met with Malcolm Gladwell that same day. Now, Malcolm was a known commodity, and no matter what issues they had with each other he was the trouble-shooter for the Tories right now, but this was several weeks after he’d been trying to push Baker as a leadership contender, a push that had inevitably failed after the Davies Murder case. There was no reason he’d drive out to Charles Baker’s house just to speak to Donna, unless it was…

  Yes. It had to be because of what that bloody journalist had said.

  Laurie said that Donna had been quite distressed when she’d spoken to Gladwell that day, most likely because of the conversations that she’d had with Kendis Taylor earlier that week.

  Will sat at his breakfast table, muttering to himself as he mused through this. Kendis Taylor had a source, someone that was feeding her the information. He’d originally assumed that it was Donna herself, but the conversations had continued after Donna had died. Will couldn’t work out whether this meant that it had been the same person throughout or someone new, continuing when the original whistle-blower had died. And if that was so, there were only a few people who could benefit from this. Only a few people still had guilt from the Balkans incident. Or had any way to profit from it.

  Will finished dressing and walked out onto his balcony; he lived on the fifth floor of a luxurious Chelsea apartment complex that looked out onto the Thames, a location way above his pay grade if he’d just relied on his Advisor’s salary. Luckily, he had other forms of income. Considering these, he sipped at his Italian roast coffee and decided on what his next plan was to be. He needed to clean up the house before Rattlestone applied for the Ministry of Defence Police tender, as there were too many loose cannons in the wind now. Bloody Frost had royally screwed the pooch when he went rogue and attacked the DCI in his office, and only the fact that Declan Walsh had been outed as a terrorist kept the idiot from too much scrutiny there. Sutcliffe too was a waste of time; since being installed in the Temple Inn office, not only had he lost the prime suspect, but he’d also allowed his detectives to run around performing their own enquiries, something that Will knew only too well from the previous night.

  Someone wanted Will out of Rattlestone. It had to be. They had seen his movement, knew he was ambitious. This had to be it. But who? They weren’t wrong, however; he was making a power play. Too many Parliamentarians had a say here—

  There was a knock on the door; Walking back into his apartment, Will crossed through the living area and opened it. A blond man in a three-piece suit stood there, a warrant card in his hand. Will didn’t need to see the card though, as he knew this officer from the files.

  ‘DC Fitzwarren, City Police,’ Fitzwarren said, putting the warrant card away into an inside pocket. ‘Any chance of a quick chat?’

  ‘Make it quick, I’ve got a busy day of meetings,’ Will walked back into the apartment, Fitzwarren following. ‘You’re with Sutcliffe, aren’t you? I’m hearing good things about you. He might be a prick, but work ethics are work ethics.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Fitzwarren said uncertainly as he looked around the minimalistic design of the apartment. ‘I just had a quick question for you.’

  ‘Only one?’ Will chuckled. ‘Your partner Kapoor had loads last night.’

  ‘Anjli’s not my partner,’ Fitzwarren said frostily. ‘I serve the law, not my vanity.’

  ‘Well said,’ Will sat down at the breakfast bar as he faced the young detective. ‘What’s the question?’

  ‘I saw you’re a member of the Friends of Brompton Cemetery.’

  ‘What of it?’ Will asked. ‘It’s been a family thing for generations.’

  ‘I wondered how much access you gain from it,’ Fitzwarren continued. ‘For example, if there’s a way to get in out of hours?’

  ‘Yes, we’re given a key to the North Lodge gate, as the Friends have offices in the East Wing,’ Will replied. It wasn’t a secret, and he knew that lying would soon catch him out. ‘You can access the cemetery from the cafe garden. Not that we need to, as the bloody place is open from dawn until darkness.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I have a grave grant pass too, which means I can drive to my family mausoleum, if that’s of interest too.’

  ‘Do you visit the mausoleum much?’

  ‘Christ, no. Morbid, tiny bloody place. I pay people to cover my workload there. You know, tidying it up and all that. Several of us do.’

  ‘Us?’

  Will nodded. ‘Quite a few MPs have plots there. Malcolm Gladwell, for example.’

  He leaned forward.

  ‘You should check into him, DC Fitzwarren. You should tell the others.’

  Fitzwarren nodded as if understanding this. ‘I will do, sir,’ he replied. ‘Can you tell me who has access to your key though?’

  ‘My workers have it,’ Will replied a little too n
onchalantly. ‘I get it from them if I need it.’

  ‘And could they have used it the night that Kendis Taylor died?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Will considered this. ‘But I thought the murderer was Walsh?’

  ‘I’m trying to work out how he got in there,’ Fitzwarren admitted. ‘Or, why Kendis and Declan hung around for so long after their meeting.’

  ‘Who said they did?’

  ‘Well, going on the evidence—‘

  Will waved Fitzwarren silent. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘Look, there’s about a hundred members, maybe more, I don’t know. You can join on their website. But only a few of us have keys. They’re old ones. There’s bound to be copies, and some old bastards who have them are in their nineties, so it wouldn’t surprise me if a few had disappeared. You know, sold on the dark web or something.’

  ‘Why would keys be sold on the dark web?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Will replied, already regretting his flippancy. ‘Getting into a graveyard at night and all that?’

  Fitzwarren nodded, as if this thought hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘One other small thing, and you might know nothing about this. Do you own a Montblanc letter opener?’

  ‘Is this case related?’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’