by Adam Carter
“Is it sun cream?”
Baronaire was holding something beneath his coat and Thompson was suddenly intrigued. She watched as Baronaire whispered to it, and for one horrible instant she thought he had abducted a cat from somewhere. Then a small furry head poked out from behind the folds of the coat. The head was pink, happy, wore plastic eyes and was obviously supposed to be a tiger.
“Hello, Miss Thompson,” the tiger said. Strangely the tiger’s smiling mouth did not move, but Baronaire’s did at the edges. “My friend Charles has been telling me so much about you.”
“Baronaire,” Thompson told the tiger. “No one calls him Charles.”
“I’ve had a hooorible life in that glass box,” the tiger continued. “Could I please come home with you, Miss Thompson? Charles says I’ll have a very good home there.”
Thompson glanced behind her to where a young couple was smirking, and she snatched the tiger from the coat. “Give me that.”
Baronaire sat beside her, relaxing. “Sort of an apology,” he said. “For dragging you all the way out here.”
Thompson was examining the tiger. “Well it’s the thought that counts, Charles.”
“Baronaire.”
“What, the tiger gets to ...” She shook her head. “I think I’m gonna call him Charles, just to annoy you.” She looked back to him. “Everything settled then?”
“Yes.”
“Abigail gone already? Where’s she headed now?”
“She’s not running any more. I explained there wasn’t any real reason to.”
“In your usual diplomatic way no doubt.”
“Do you think you can find your way back to your bike?”
Thompson felt the question was rather odd. “Of course I can. Why? You not coming?”
“I bought one of my own.”
“You bought a bike? Why?” More important question: “Which one?”
“I don’t know,” Baronaire laughed. “You can have it afterwards anyway. It’ll come out of expenses.”
“Sanders is gonna love that.”
“Mr Baronaire?”
Thompson was surprised to see Abigail Grayn standing before them. The girl seemed sheepish, more than a little afraid of something, and Thompson figured this wasn’t quite as over as she had thought.
“Abigail’s coming back to London,” Baronaire explained. “We set off in such a hurry I never gave any thought to how I was going to get her back. Which is why I bought another bike.”
“She’s going back?” Thompson asked, confused. “But she’s spent the whole time running away.”
“I think I’m done running, Detective,” Abigail said, and at last Thompson understood the fear in her. It was the apprehension of going back. “Mr Baronaire’s persuaded me that my best shot in life would begin with a bit of stability. I’m going back to my foster home, if they’ll have me back. Go to school, college, get a job. Start a family maybe.” She smiled slightly. “Do it right even.”
It wasn’t what Thompson had been expecting, but then it had been a while since she was a fourteen year old girl and guessed they were growing up a little too fast now. “Well good for you,” she said. She offered Baronaire a congratulatory raise of the eyebrows. She had not expected any good to have come from this endeavour, but it seemed she was proven wrong. “I’m glad you have your head screwed on, Abigail.”
“Thank you, Detective. I ... I’m just glad it’s all over. No,” she changed her mind. “I’m glad it’s all just beginning.”
Thompson stretched her limbs as she got to her feet, putting her back to the girl so she could offer her partner an ‘is she serious?’ expression. “Better get going then,” she said. “I’ll see you back at the office, Baronaire.”
“We’re not riding together?”
“Hell no. I got today off. And tomorrow, although Sanders doesn’t know it. I’m going for a ride, pal. There’s a cute little redhead we left back at a B and B I’m gonna have a whole lot a fun with.” She ruffled Abigail’s hair playfully. “Take care, kid. I got grown up stuff to do.”
Inhaling of the deep sea air, Thompson headed back through the town to where she had left her bike. Sometimes life was good after all.
*
“Well, she seems ... fun,” Abigail noted as she and Baronaire walked arm in arm back along the seafront to where they had left their own transport.
“Jen? She’s a little intense for my tastes.”
“You? Calling someone intense?”
Baronaire had nothing to say to that. He glanced out across the sea and memories flooded back once more. Memories of his father, of playing in the surf, of digging holes in the sand. Not so much of building castles, but he certainly remembered he loved to dig holes when he was a toddler.
“I always wanted to see this,” Abigail said.
“See what?”
“See the sea. We never came when we were kids. Dad always said we couldn’t have holidays. Probably too much football on TV for him to do anything like that.”
“Is that why you came here?”
“Figured if someone was trying to kill me, I’d see all this before I died. Kids at school would always talk about this, talk about how they played the arcades and ate so much candyfloss they were sick. Still never had any candyfloss.”
“The seaside’s one of my fondest memories,” Baronaire said in a small voice. “I guess at least I have that to look back on.”
“Isn’t there something you could do?” Abigail asked, leaning against his shoulder, safe in his presence. “Can’t you find out who killed your father?”
“I know who killed him.”
“And what have you done about it?”
“Nothing. It’s touching the untouchable that’s the trick.”
“Isn’t that what you do? For a living, I mean?”
Baronaire smiled, patted her hand. “Let’s not talk of sad things, Abigail. And there’s no reason to leave right now, if you don’t want to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I smell doughnuts. And there’s a candyfloss stall just ahead. It’s barely midday, we still have hours before this place closes up.”
She laughed shortly. “You mean spend the day at the beach?”
“Yeah,” he said, gazing back out across the water. “One more time.”
Abigail giggled, throwing her arms about him before running off towards the stalls. Baronaire was left holding her backpack and her cuddly mouse. He watched her with a small smile as she pointed at one of the bags of candyfloss hanging down, the stall owner picking it for her. Charles Baronaire had no family, but he was happy. Perhaps this was what it felt like to have a daughter. He hoped one day he may even find out for himself.
“It’s all right, Charles,” the mouse said. “You can afford to be human for one day. Everyone should get to have one day to be alive.”
EPILOGUE
The reports piled up. Detective Chief Inspector Edward Sanders didn’t know where they all came from. There were cases on his desk, finalised and awaiting his approval, he hadn’t even sanctioned, which was odd considering how tight a ship he ran. What he needed was a secretary, but the instant he employed someone in that regard, he gave a single individual the reins to the organisation. No one could know everything. Only Sanders knew the ins and outs of Operation WetFish, and that was the way it had to stay.
There came a knock to his door then and he looked up to see Baronaire standing waiting. He motioned for the man to enter and Baronaire brought with him a sheaf of papers. Another report. Just what Sanders wanted.
“Leave it there,” Sanders said. “I’ll get to it eventually. How’d it go?”
“Abigail came back to London. I convinced her going back to her foster home was in her own best interests.”
“How did she feel about her father?”
“Hated him. Glad he’s dead.”
“Does she know what happened to him?”
“Suicide. The evidence was overwhelming.”
“Still,
the kid knew her dad better than anyone. If there was one person who knew he didn’t do it, it’d be her. She may bear watching.”
“No need. She’s put that life behind her now.”
Sanders looked up from his work. It was unlike Charles Baronaire to put any faith in a human being. He wondered what had got into him and for one horrible moment he felt Abigail Grayn was dead. “But she’s OK?” he asked tenuously.
“Yes. And I didn’t use any powers to influence her decision either. I know you’re wondering.”
“And next time she goes to the doctors there aren’t going to be any strange marks on her body?”
“None her father didn’t put there. Trust me, Ed.”
Sanders knew he had little choice. He used Baronaire because it suited him to do so, and so far Baronaire had not betrayed him.
“I got you a present,” Baronaire said, producing a bag of rock. “You’re the boss so you get first choice.”
Sanders put down his pen. “What’s with you?”
“Peppermint?”
“Charles, what’s that girl done to you?”
“Mixed fruit?”
“Charles!”
Baronaire hesitated. “I have one shaped like a fried egg if you’d prefer?”
Sanders sighed. “Banana. You know it’s always banana.”
“Banana it is.”
Sanders accepted the gift and watched as Baronaire, one of his best soldiers, open the door to his office. His office whose walls were formed of glass so he could watch everyone at work. “Maybe you should tend to victims more often,” Sanders suggested. “Seems to have done you the world of good, Charles.”
“Something to think about, Ed.”
*
Baronaire closed the door and the false smile vanished. His back was to the office though, so Sanders could not see. He liked Sanders, he actually did. The man did a good job, a job which needed to be done. He respected that, and there was something very likeable about a man who could commit his life to that pursuit.
But he did not like Sanders. It was a contradiction, but one which Baronaire knew only too well. Sanders was untouchable. He was the most untouchable man in the entire country. Baronaire thought back to Abigail Grayn, to the seaside, to his final, happy memories of his father. Sanders was untouchable, but Charles Baronaire had joined WetFish for one reason and one reason only. And one day he would have the opportunity to make Sanders pay for everything he had done.
One day.
One day.
OPERATION WETFISH
BOOK 3
THE HUNT FOR CHARLES BARONAIRE
PROLOGUE
Kayleigh Waters had never intended to go into the business of running a pub. As a child she had always wanted to be a clown, but eventually she realised clowns didn’t make a whole lot of money. Her parents were never too keen on the idea anyway. She had gained her first pub mainly by accident, but that wasn’t something she liked to talk about. It was out of the way, located in a basement and away from the problems of the outside world. Kayleigh preferred it that way. The world wasn’t such a nice place anyway. She found she did not dislike the job now, and ten years down the line she might even say she had started to enjoy it. But there was one thing she despised about owning her own pub, and that was when people would prop up the bar of an evening and burden her with all their troubles as though she cared.
The woman slumped at the bar before her was tall, slim, athletic without seeming too powerful about it. She was dressed in tight black trousers and a biker’s jacket she kept fastened. She hadn’t even removed her gloves, as though she was afraid to leave fingerprints on the glasses. As Kayleigh watched those hands, however, she realised they were trembling. The woman’s head was bowed, her thick dark hair trailing across her face, concealing the usually mischievous eyes and dry sarcastic smile.
The woman’s name was Jen Thompson and she was perhaps the only person Waters cared about in the entire bar.
Kayleigh poured another vodka and splashed in the tiniest amount of water, taking it over to where Thompson was desperately clutching her empty glass and staring into the melting ice as though its slow death might solve the mysteries of life. Thompson didn’t even register her approach, which was cause for concern since Thompson was ordinarily the most observant person Kayleigh had ever met.
“What’s up?” Kayleigh asked, trying to keep her tone light as she placed the vodka before her customer.
“I screwed up. I screwed up royally and now a good man’s dead.”
Whatever Kayleigh had expected, that hadn’t been it. She didn’t know what the correct response should have been for such a statement. In fact she reminded herself that she didn’t care about other people’s problems and didn’t want to get into the habit of standing there listening to them. But Jen Thompson was special. She was a decent woman and deserved a little respect.
“There aren’t many good people left in this world, Jen,” she said, not sure that was helping. “You want to talk about it?”
“Yes.”
Kayleigh waited for more. “You want me to guess?”
Thompson raised her head then and Kayleigh could see her ordinarily beautiful eyes were red and puffy, but that even the tears upon her cheeks had long since dried. It took a lot to make Jen Thompson cry over someone, but her tears had ended and now she had delved into a depression which tugged at Kayleigh’s heart.
“I wish I was allowed tell you,” Thompson said, pushing herself up from the bar, her sad eyes never leaving Kayleigh’s. “But I’ve killed enough people today already.”
Kayleigh watched her go, but Thompson did not leave the bar. She just wandered aimlessly over to a corner and slumped into a chair. At first Kayleigh was confused and leaning her arms upon the bar did she sip at the vodka whilst watching the oblivious Jen Thompson. It did not take Kayleigh long to understand why Thompson had not left: she simply had nowhere to go. That, Kayleigh reflected sullenly, was the saddest part of all.
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Jen Thompson’s assignment involved a drug dealer who had just been let off a string of charges. The evidence against him was good, the witnesses solid, but the judge had thrown it out regardless. Her DCI had given her the case, informing her the only explanation was that the judge was in the pocket of the dealer and his friends. It was rare for the DCI to give his opinion on a case as he was handing it over, and when he did it meant the officer in question just had that little bit less work to do. Thompson was a detective: she had been a detective when she had signed up with the DCI’s team, and she would be a detective when she retired. But being a detective she liked to be able to work things out for herself.
Still, if it would save her time she was hardly going to complain. Unfortunately, it also made her complacent. She figured she would have the case sewn up in no time. She did not stop to think that when the DCI gave you information for free, it meant he was extremely worried.
Thompson had headed out alone to where the dealer was meeting colleagues. She had his file and knew everything about him. She also had a very good idea on how to close the case quickly. The DCI didn’t like big flashy scenes, but sometimes that was just what the media needed in order not to focus on the details.
The newspapers had been filled a month ago with the fact that a group of drugs smugglers were using a specific type of boat to get their junk into the country. Thompson didn’t know squat about boats, but she had looked up the specifics and felt certain of her strategy. The boat was their trademark, and the public would associate it with the gang. For her purposes, it was also a speedboat, which meant it would be fast enough for the job she had in mind.
Also, the gang notorious for using this type of boat was a rival to the one her target worked for.
She had therefore acquired one such speedboat and raced to the harbour she knew her target would be visiting. The sky was heavy with the promise of rain, and it was approaching midnight, so she knew her actions would be concealed from any at
tentive eyes. She had painted the boat black and was wearing a slick black diving suit; on the black waters she would be indistinguishable from a shadow.
The harbour had come into view, the small pier where she knew her target would be appeared before her. Her heart leapt when she realised he was already on the pier, alone, and so she poured on all speed in order to reach him in time. It was probably the noise that alerted him, but as she watched him look towards her, frowning as he tried to make out just what it was headed towards him at such speeds, she knew he didn’t have any time to get out of the way. Puzzlement turned to shock, turned to fear, as he froze. Best reaction he could have given.
Thompson leaped from the boat, sliding into the brackish waters and staying down. The speedboat struck the pier, the impact igniting the Semtex she had stored in its base. As Thompson broke the surface she watched the entire pier erupt into a tremendous explosion, her target going up with it. With the aid of her diving suit, Thompson would be away from the scene in minutes, long before any camera crews showed up. Upon discovering the wreckage of the boat, the rival gang would be blamed; the newspapers would fan the flames of that. The public would be reading tomorrow of how a drugs smuggler, released by the courts, had been taken out by a rival gang, with no other injuries, and they’d make appreciative comments. They’d talk about it when they got to work, nod in agreement as they watched it on the news when they got home.
They would forget all about it by tomorrow.
Thompson was happy, the DCI would be happy, the file was closed.
And then gunfire had erupted around her and she realised with horror someone was shooting at her in the water.
She looked about, frantically trying to locate the source, and did so only by the sudden flash of more bullets. The water erupted before her with each bullet and she dived, knowing her best chance in such dark conditions was to get herself underwater. Unfortunately the fire upon the pier was lighting up the river and the people shooting at her seemed more intent on getting her than in seeing whether their buddy was all right.
