by Jack Gatland
He'd also had the sense to cut the wire on the apartment block’s CCTV a few weeks earlier when he’d started to spend more time there. The last thing he wanted was CCTV showing the guests that he brought to his door, so he’d ensured that the feed never reached the recorder. And to be honest there wasn’t a security guard in the block who watched the screens, it was a server that deleted over everything after 48 hours, and unless something major had happened and someone needed to check the feed, he wasn’t going to be found out any time soon. And if it was found out? Then he’d simply deny all knowledge and find a way to change the meetings to elsewhere. It’s why he’d felt so secure bringing Sebastian back there.
Sebastian.
Andy steadied himself. Fainting into the hole was not an option.
Finally, he’d wiped mud over his front and back licence plates; he’d seen on a television show once that the police could use a thing called Automatic Number Plate Recognition, or ANPR to follow vehicles on busy roads; the ANPR cameras could read the number and instantly check it against databases of ownership. It was how police could stop drivers without MOTs or insurance. There were around eleven thousand of these cameras, not including the ones in police cars scattered around the country, and the last thing Andy wanted was to leave a trail for anyone to follow. The Land Rover’s emblazoned God’s Will TV marketing was bad enough; if he was stopped for having dirty number plates, he’d be fined £1,000. He could pay that on the spot.
He’d driven home, back to Avebury; usually the quickest route would have been the M4 motorway, but Andy needed the lesser used roads. He needed to find woodland areas that would be perfect for what he had planned. He found such a location in Cadley, just south of Marlborough. There you would find the ancient Savernake Forest, with trees up to a thousand years old, all within seven square miles of ancient woodland.
You could bury a lot of bodies in seven miles of ancient woodland.
It was getting dark when Andy arrived, exactly as he hoped for. The roads weren’t lit by streetlights, only cats-eyes in the middle of the road. This was a lane that people drove full beam down late in the night and it was perfect. Pulling onto a side entrance that was more track than tarmac Andy carried on up it, away from the main road for about half a mile. Then, once he was sure that he was in the deepest, darkest, densest part of the wood, he pulled into a clearing, leaving the side lights on to give him light to work in the moonless night.
It was easier to get the flight box out of the Ranger Rover than in; all he did was open the back of the Land Rover, get behind the box and push. Landing on its side, the straps still around it, Andy then used those straps to pull the box through the undergrowth, gaining some distance from the track. He knew he was making another track of his own, but it wasn’t too far from the car and he could cover it up when he left.
Then, grabbing a shovel from the back of the car he started to dig.
The problem he found though, was that the ground wasn’t easy to dig into. It was easy to get through the topsoil, but under it was a chalky clay-like substance that fought his shovel every step of the way. In fact, after an hour of digging he’d only managed a hole that was about three feet deep. It was going to take him all night to dig a hole big enough for the flight case.
Maybe he didn’t need to bury the box.
When he’d taken the body and placed it in the box, he’d made sure that he’d cleaned it first, trying to remove any trace of his own DNA on the skin. He’d used a condom during sex, so there were no semen traces either, and he currently wore brand new leather gloves because he’d seen people do that in the movies. But to be sure, he had to go that one step further.
He ran back to the Land Rover, grabbing a small plastic petrol can. Then, with the can in hand, he opened the box.
The smell hit him before he could prepare himself, and he almost vomited onto the ground. He managed to force himself not to; the last thing he wanted to do was remove all traces of his DNA on the body only to puke up a ton of new evidence. Once he was prepared, and the smell had dissipated, he looked back into the box.
Sebastian looked like he was sleeping. The clothes had been dumped into the box with him, but the curled up body was nude, having been cleaned in a bath before insertion. Andy choked back a tear. He hadn’t meant to do this, he’d been scared. Angry. It wasn’t his fault. Sebastian should have come clean. Andy was—
He was damned.
Andy stood straighter, filling his heart with steely resolution to the task at hand. He couldn’t lose what he’d gained. He’d kept his sexuality secret for decades. He could hold another quiet secret in his heart until Judgement Day.
But to do that meant sacrifice.
Pouring the petrol over the body and clothes, Andy Mac lit a match and tossed it into the case, the petrol instantly catching fire, the flames shooting high. Scared of this being seen, Andy grabbed the shovel, using the haft to bridge an opening in the lid as he closed it, allowing air to get in, and smoke to get out. The last thing that he wanted to do was close the lid, cut off the air and allow the lack of oxygen to snuff the flame out.
He stood alone in the clearing for a short while, allowing the crackle of the flames to lull him into a sense of relaxation, as if standing beside a camp fire. But then a crack of a twig, most likely from a deer or suchlike brought him back to the present.
The flames had died down in the box. The body was charred and almost unidentifiable, the clothing equally as such. It smelt strangely like roast pork. The flight box wasn’t that hot; the heat mainly concentrating on the body, but Andy was taking no chances and kept his leather gloves on. Shifting the box so that it stood beside the hole, Andy simply pushed it over, allowing the charred body and remains to slide out of the box and into it. Once done he used the shovel to ensure that the box was empty before turning it back upright. Quickly now, he pulled the now lighter box to the Land Rover, using the straps once more to pull it into the boot. Then, with the lid held open, he started to fill the box with stones and pieces of heavy wood. He’d need to ensure that the box was never found again too, and there were some deep areas of the River Kennet nearby; he could park on a bridge and throw it over. It would never be seen again.
Moving back to the body, he grabbed the shovel as he looked down into the hole. He couldn’t recognise Sebastian anymore and that saddened him. The man really had been beautiful. Shaking the thought away, he started to shovel soil on top of the corpse.
He’d almost finished when he saw the light.
It was in the forest, and it was moving towards him. A torch, swinging from side to side as someone approached. Still in the distance, but there was no way that Andy would be able to finish before they were on top of him.
‘Who’s out there?’ A faint voice cried out from the distance.
A Forest Ranger. Shit.
Andy shovelled on as much dirt as he could before eventually giving up and running to the Land Rover. Tossing the shovel in the back, he closed the door quickly, leaping into the driver’s seat. Starting the engine, he could see the torch getting closer. He hadn’t managed to hide the trail left by the box, but the last thing he wanted was for the advertising on the side of the Land Rover to be seen. Andy slammed the vehicle into drive, bumping over the mound at the edge of the track and quickly spun the steering wheel, now facing back down the track towards the main road. Then, without pausing he slammed his foot down. He didn’t care if he damaged the underside of the vehicle on this battered old road.
Cars could be repaired.
He just hoped to God that he’d done enough, hidden the body enough to ensure that his career, or even his life didn’t need to be repaired too.
15
Party Politics
Declan hadn’t stayed the night in hospital, even though it had been suggested that he should. He hadn’t needed stitches to the cut above his eyebrow; instead three sterile strips currently held it together, and his other bruises just added to the ones he’d received earlier that d
ay in his sparring session.
That said, with the waiting in the hospital, the health checks and the eventual reluctant release, it was gone midnight before Declan returned to the apartment and collapsed into bed.
The following morning the bruises had started to darken; the cut was now a vicious purple and yellow, and another bruise from when the second blow had struck was starting to blossom up on his cheek. It was a cautious Declan Walsh who dressed that morning, careful not to move too fast, wincing as his bruises and damaged muscles flared up with annoyance as he tried to move them. Even sitting in the car was painful, especially the stop-start driving of the London rush hour. However, even with that, he still managed to arrive at the Temple Inn Command Unit before eight am.
Monroe was waiting at the door for him. Declan assumed the gate guard had alerted him. Or maybe the car he’d loaned Declan had some kind of tracker in it.
‘You know, laddie, you’re taking this joke a little too far,’ Monroe said as Declan approached. ‘This is the third day in a row I’ve seen you, the third day I’ve said you look like shite, and every day you attempt to better it.’
‘Wait, when did you tell me I looked like shite today?’
Monroe grinned.
‘Right now, son,’ he said, moving to the side, allowing Declan to pass through the doorway. ‘You look like shite. Come in and have a cuppa.’
Entering the upstairs office, Declan saw that Anjli was already at her desk working. She looked up at him, her eyes widening slightly. Declan assumed that Monroe had briefed everyone on what had happened the previous night.
‘Did you manage any sleep?’ was all she asked. Declan appreciated that.
‘A little,’ Declan replied, painfully and slowly sitting at his own desk as Monroe walked over, a cup of tea in his hand.
‘No sitting there laddie,’ he said. ‘We need to brief you on some new developments, and from the look of things if you settle there we won’t be moving you for a while.’
Declan nodded, rising back out of his chair, looking at the mug. ‘Is that for me?’
‘Christ no,’ Monroe replied, sipping at it. ‘What am I, your mother?’
He walked off as Declan looked at Anjli. She smiled.
‘That’s his way of showing concern,’ she said.
‘Here,’ Trix said, offering Declan a coffee. ‘You looked like you needed one.’
‘Jesus!’ Declan almost fell back against the desk as he spun to face her, wincing as the bruise on his side flared up with the movement. ‘Where did you come from? You’re a bloody ninja!’
Trix passed Declan the mug and walked off. ‘I’m always here,’ she said. ‘I’m the office fairy.’
She stopped, and for the first time Declan saw something new on her face. Something that looked like actual compassion.
‘They shouldn’t have done that to you,’ she said before turning away once more and continuing to her own desk at the back of the office where she was currently refiling old cases.
‘Looks like you have an admirer,’ Anjli whispered as she passed Declan. ‘That’s the most she’s said to anyone since I’ve been here.’
As Anjli entered the briefing room, Declan looked down at his coffee, remembering the previous night.
‘You should leave things you don’t know about alone,’ the man with the rimless glasses hissed into Declan’s ear. ‘Things that happened in the past should stay in the past.’
Was this a personal attack from a disgruntled policeman? It was possible. It could even had been a religious zealot. But there was one thing that stood out. Two things, really.
First, the man had said that Declan should leave things alone. Not should have left, spoken in the past tense, but very much the present. Which meant it was something Declan was currently doing. Mile End and the priest were both very much in his rear view mirror.
That left Victoria Davies and his Dad’s death.
Could someone have worked out that Declan was about to investigate it? He hadn’t been quiet about it. But at the same time, he hadn’t even started. Which brought him to the second thing that stood out.
The man was well trained. Military, even.
He knew how to use the baton efficiently and mercilessly. He knew Declan, and most likely knew that Declan was ex-Military Police. He didn’t even pause. He walked straight up and attacked him on a public street. That took a particular mindset. One he’d seen many times while working in the SIB.
Declan walked into the briefing room, sitting down. If that was the case, then who was the message from? Susan Devington didn’t seem the type to send a messenger; she could have said this in person. Andy Mac was a possibility, but at the same time seemed a bit too cautious. Shaun Donnal had proven he was quite happy to get his own hands dirty…
Which left Charles Baker, and the British Government. Had the man been a spook? An MI5 or MI6 agent? Special Branch perhaps?
Monroe tapped the giant screen loudly to grab Declan’s attention.
‘You okay, boy?’ he asked. Declan nodded.
‘Just working out who did this,’ he said, indicating his face.
‘Aye, we’ll get to that to be sure,’ Monroe replied. ‘But first we have some goodies to go through.’
An image appeared on the screen; that of a woman, late twenties at some kind of rally. Her long black hair was pulled back, and she wore a navy blue suit jacket and skirt. There was a yellow rosette on her lapel, fluttering as she shouted out through a megaphone, the crowd cheering. She wasn’t slim, but at the same time she wasn’t overweight. The suit hid her curves in the same way that Susan Devington’s had. It was also a dated style, possibly from the mid-nineties. Behind her and to the right was another black haired woman, a woolly hat covering her forehead and shadowing her face.
‘Meet Sarah Hinksman,’ Monroe started, tapping the screen and by default the image, zooming in slightly. ‘Taken during the 1997 General Election.’
‘This is who Shaun Donnal was in love with?’ Anjli asked, already writing in her notepad. Monroe shrugged.
‘We’d have to ask him that,’ he said. ‘At this point they wouldn’t have met, but by the time she died, she would have been hand in glove with him.’
‘Who’s the other woman?’ Declan asked.
‘Frankie Wilson,’ Monroe replied. ‘The long suffering assistant that Susan spoke to you about.’
A tap of the screen and the image changed to the monochrome reality of a police crime photo. A car crash, late at night. The vehicle was crushed almost beyond recognition.
‘October the first, 1999,’ Monroe continued. ‘Hinksman’s car crashes on the A31, just north of Stoney Cross, Dorset. Post mortem showed that she was over six times the legal limit, not to mention the drugs in her system.’
‘Do we know which drugs?’
‘Ketamine.’
‘Christ, she took horse tranquilisers with alcohol and drove? Bloody idiot.’
‘Was she a known drinker?’ Declan asked. Monroe shook his head.
‘The occasional drink, but nothing more. Apparently there was a Labour bash that night in Bournemouth to celebrate the end of the Labour Party Conference. Press reports of the event say that Hinksman was a surprise arrival. By this time she’d quit politics, left her husband; one of the Labour press secretaries Liam Hinksman, and had Shaun’s baby.’
‘So not the best guest you’d want to have there.’
‘No. And according to a gossip site at the time, it was believed she was looking for a confrontation with the father of the baby. Apparently he wasn’t keeping to his side of the bargain.’
‘He hadn’t left his own wife,’ Anjli said. ‘Who was probably there at the conference.’ Monroe nodded, tapping the screen. Another image appeared; a younger Shaun Donnal, his wife beside him, waving from the Labour Conference stage. To the right, Declan could see Michael Davies, applauding them.
‘She was indeed,’ he zoomed in on the image. ‘If they were separated, she was a bloody good actr
ess here. But there was a big cabinet shakeup on the horizon, Blair’s speech hadn’t gone down as well as people had hoped, and he was probably scared that anything that came out then would affect his chances of moving up.’
‘And then Shaun’s Lib Dem mistress appears at the conference,’ Declan considered. ‘That couldn’t have gone down well.’
‘For any of them,’ Anjli added. ‘The three of them were in the same office. They were probably worried that they’d be tarred with the same brush.’
Declan indicated the image. ‘And Michael Davies there would have been screwed, considering that he was starting to prime Donnal as Blair’s replacement around now.’
‘Indeed. Michael would have had a lot riding on Donnal right then. Sarah Hinksman would have been the end of it all. Which leads us to Andy Mac,’ Monroe pointed to Declan. ‘And the interesting titbit from Susan Devington.’
‘Even though Andy says he barely knew her, Susan Devington’s convinced that Andy was the cause of Sarah Hinksman’s death that night,’ Declan pulled out his notebook, opening it. ‘Claims that Andy intercepted Sarah before she could get to Shaun, sat her in a bar and pretty much kept her drinking all night.’
‘How does she know this?’ Monroe pulled up a photo of the young Andy Macintyre.
‘Word of mouth after the case. Apparently Shaun found out about the drinks. Probably the drugs too, as Andy seems to have been a bit of a partygoer back then. And for some reason Shaun blamed Andy for the death,’ Declan continued. ‘Would have made an interesting dynamic in that office. Around the same time, Victoria turns up; it’s possibly then or just before the conference that she slept with Andy Mac, bringing her into contact with the other two. Anyway, at some point Shaun told Victoria his suspicions, who in turn confided in Susan. Meanwhile Andy apparently didn’t realise that Sarah was driving back that day, and she left before he could stop her.’
‘Or perhaps this was his plan,’ Monroe mused. ‘The old Sweeney manoeuvre.’
