by Nell Grey
And now fifteen years on, Peter lived in a gated mansion in Cheshire. His kids went to private school and did pony club on the weekends. No one would ever think that Peter Caruthers was the Scousers’ Chief Operating Officer, handling millions of pounds of drug imports and money laundering.
Connor lined the ball onto the tee. He took the Big Bertha out of his bag and practised the shot, carefully copying his friend.
This time it was for real. Swinging back, he gave it an almighty thump.
The ball sliced out of bounds over into the trees lining the edge of the fairway.
Pete gave Connor a patient smile. He knew how much Irish hated golf.
“Why bring me all the way out here?”
“I needed space around us. Clothes that aren’t bugged.”
He gave his friend a sarcastic stare. Peter had picked them out for him. Left for him at the reception desk. A pink golfing polo shirt, lemon diamond-knit sweater and light grey trousers. He’d done it on purpose. Chosen the colours to wind him up. Only Pete was allowed to do that.
Everything Irish had with him, phones included, had been left in the locker room.
He stared at his friend.
“Why? What’s up?”
“I think our operation’s been compromised. The second Dutch container was raided yesterday. Could be a coincidence, but, put it this way… one raid’s unusual. But two in a row?”
“How much?”
“Ten million.”
“Jees.”
Irish felt a little queasy as they started walking up the fairway towards the first ball. His. It was only money. But still.
“Look, are you sayin’ we got another leak? Or are we being bugged?”
“That’s the thing, Irish. I put a different team on the second consignment.”
“So?”
“I think the NCA’s monitoring our phones.”
“What, the Encrochat? Thought you said it was safe?”
“I did… but I don’t wanna take any risks. We need to go back to old school.”
That meant meetups like this one. More feckin’ golf. It meant regularly swapped burner phones and using different dark web chat rooms. It was a blag and it would slow them down. How could the National Crime Agency have found their devices?
Irish sniffed.
“Sion Edwards.”
“‘Scuse me?”
“Sion Edwards… He had one of the Encrochat phones. He’s an NCA operative. They’ve used it to hack us.”
The hitman was screwing with the whole operation.
Wherever he was, Irish vowed he’d never rest until Sion Edwards was his. Hanging from a hook.
◆◆◆
The traffic was easing as Shaun headed over the spectacular Auckland flyovers. Hugging the coast, wending his way north in the black BMW estate that he’d been given.
It was winter here, but New Zealand was still warm; the vegetation, a lush chlorophyllic green.
He’d chosen this country because Claire had told him that she’d wanted to visit it someday. Her father was a Kiwi. Not that she’d ever met him.
He’d no idea what the place would be like. He’d been clutching at straws trying to cling onto the futile hope that he might meet up with her again, even though he knew he never could. But, simply being here he felt a little more connected to her.
And he’d made a good choice. New Zealand was stunningly beautiful.
He drove off the highway into a pretty little town and onwards down to the beach road to drink a can of coke and eat the takeaway pie that he’d bought in the garage a few miles back.
He hadn’t been sure about the beef in gravy with cheese combo, but the pie tasted surprisingly good after a day and night of airline food.
Scrunching up the paper and foil, he got out of the car and headed for the litter bin he’d spotted, then continued down to the white sand cove below the road.
A few hundred metres in front of the empty beach, bursting out from the calm aquamarine ocean was a small clump of land, a tiny uninhabited island crammed full of thick bushes and trees.
For some reason, seeing the lush little piece of land sprouting from the sea made him feel even more alone.
Not that many people would miss him. His mother overdosed when he was twenty-one and his dad had left when he was a kid. Told them he was going away to work on the oil rigs out in Saudi. He’d heard years later that his dad had been shacked up twenty miles away with another woman the whole time and that they’d had a kid together. Good luck to them, he thought bitterly. He hoped he’d been a better dad the second time around.
The only family he’d ever known had been the army, and his brothers in arms, Jac and Jason. Jac had moved out of the cottage where they’d both been staying. He was a proper Welsh sheep farmer now, living in the farmhouse with Maureen’s daughter, Annie. And Jason had swapped flying helicopters in and out of Helmand for huge passenger airliners in and out of Singapore. And now, Shaun had lost his special forces brothers too.
The landscape was becoming more and more rural the further north he drove. And the traffic was thinning out with only the odd lorry and car sharing the road.
He passed through steep valleys covered in huge tree ferns and straight-trunked trees that seemed to stretch infinitely into the sky.
He wouldn’t be surprised to see a pterodactyl flying above him or a dinosaur popping out from the dense, prehistoric bush surrounding him.
And then the landscape changed again. And now he was driving through rolling, volcanic, dairy pastures littered with hundreds of ginger cows.
Shaun rubbed his neck to ease the stiffness and pain that was starting to set in as he carried on driving west past a small town declaring itself to be the sweet potato capital of the world.
And then on to Dargarei, a sprawling agricultural town on the banks of a mighty muddy river. Passing tractor dealerships and farmers’ merchants on the outskirts, he pushed on to the centre and parked up on the main street.
Boxy shops scruffily lined this long, one-street, one-horse town. Colonial clapperboard frontages popped out from behind modern signage as if a Hollywood western had been shot here and they’d hastily covered over the set. And at the bottom of the main drag, a Victorian heap of a hotel claimed itself to be the town's sports bar. The place felt like an outpost that was never quite tamed and was now overlooked in favour of the prettier east coast.
Shaun was still thinking about how he’d landed in the Wild West as he picked up a sleeping bag and took it over to the counter in the camping and fishing shop.
The check-shirted man behind the desk raised an eyebrow as he scanned the label on the sleeping bag.
“That it?”
Shaun signalled an acknowledgement. The beds wouldn’t be aired, but he didn’t think he’d be slumming it.
“Not fishing, then?”
“No.”
“Good as gold.”
The man appraised Shaun carefully.
“Goin’ camping?”
“Something like that.”
“Weekend away in the bush, eh?”
“Hmm.”
“Where you planning on heading?”
Shaun scratched the back of his head and sighed to himself resignedly. This dude wasn’t giving up.
“Look, do you know this place?”
He held out his phone for the shopkeeper to read the address.
“Lake Lodge?”
He took in the store owner’s blank face and switched the map app on for him.
“Ahh, okay… I see… it looks like Jake’s Place.”
“Jake? Does someone live there?”
“No. Not now. No one’s lived there since... well... since he passed.”
Before Shaun could ask more, the man cut the conversation dead, then disappeared underneath the counter to rummage through boxes of stock.
His dishevelled head re-emerged a few seconds later and he clanked a large hunting knife onto the sales desk in front of them.
; Shaun stared hard at the long sheathed knife, then looked intently at the man.
“What’s that for?”
The store owner shrugged but met him square in the eye.
“Might come in handy up there.”
Shaun had heard of upselling. A cake with a coffee, chocolates at the till, but this was the oddest thing he’d ever been offered.
“Nah, you’re fine.”
“You sure?”
Shaun nodded.
The knife disappeared back into the box below the counter.
“Your call, mate.”
“So…” Shaun tried again, “This Lake Lodge, or uh, Jake’s Place? What’s it like?”
“Middle of the wop wops. By the lake.”
The store owner ended the conversation brusquely and Shaun handed over his new bank card.
The man smiled a little more kindly at him as he processed the payment.
“Look, you seem like a nice fulla. If it’s a pretty camping spot to stay for the weekend you’re after, you’re best headin’ over to The Bay of Islands. Keri Keri, Russell; it’s beautiful out that way. And they’re much more geared up for tourists like yourself. Where you’re heading, it’s a bit… a bit wild. Not so many people, no police. Got all sorts livin’ up there.”
Shaun tapped his pin into the card reader.
“No. I’m going to the Lodge.”
It was a well-meant warning but he was more than capable of handling himself against a couple of wild men in the woods.
The shop owner shrugged and handed him back his card folded neatly in the paper receipt.
“Suit yourself.”
With groceries and his new sleeping bag, Shaun got back on the road, following the route planner on his phone.
He eased his car tentatively through a never-ending string of jersey cows crossing the road on their way to being milked. The man in the store was right, where he was heading was rural.
Gradually, as he headed further northwest, the farms petered out and the ancient fern trees and native bush began to close in again.
The roads were becoming rougher too and it took all of Shaun’s concentration to avoid the potholes and small heaps of shale that were more frequently littering the highway.
Heavily laden forestry lorries passed by. But it didn’t look like many people lived out here. Still, it was perfect for an embassy retreat. And a perfect hideout for him, a place to start over.
Maybe even farm?
Thinking about how Jac would laugh at that made him feel sad.
Finally, the map app told him to turn.
Shaun pulled up and checked the route. It was pointing him off the road, up a dusty track into the forest. It was rough gravel, but looking at the online map he didn’t have much choice.
The underneath of the car scraped disconcertingly against stones as he scrunched over the unsealed road, trying to avoid the deep ruts washed out by rain.
The BMW clanked again as he hit another hole. He prayed that it wasn’t the radiator. The BMW was holding out, but he’d be wise to trade it for an off-roader.
The track was taking him deeper into the forest and away from any sign of civilisation. He was certain there were no wild hoodlums around here, not with a road this bad.
Suddenly, after a twist in the road, he spotted a clearing and fields. And then, as he turned the next bend he saw it. A large, pristine turquoise lake lined with long stretches of white sand.
The pin for his destination was right on the lake shoreline. He scanned the edge of the lake for the embassy residence, but he couldn’t see any buildings.
Slowly, the road neared the lake and he followed the track around the shore, passing a sandy beach. There were two picnic benches there, though the place was deserted today.
His eyes combed the bush for the property.
You have now reached your destination.
Shaun turned another bend. And then he saw it. There, on the shoreline ahead of him, stood an impressively forbidding, almost gothic-looking dark timbered lodge.
It certainly didn’t look like a home. The windows on one side and the back door were boarded up with chipboard which someone had sprayed with graffiti drawings and tags.
Closer inspection didn’t make it look any more welcoming. The dark, rambling house was surrounded at the rear and the side by clumps of giant grasses and bushes that gave way to paddocks, once cleared, but now reclaimed by the scrub and weeds.
A large wooden barn to the side looked intact, but would it hold stock? And he didn’t even want to think about the state of the fences.
Stepping back, he examined the lodge. An additional wing on each side of the main building jutted out like a mad architect’s afterthought. Vegetation sprouted out from the ancient guttering, and even from here he could see a large hole in the rusty zinc-sheeted roof on the left-hand side.
He made his way onto the old porch that wrapped around the front, avoiding two perilous holes where the planks had rotted and given way.
There was no rambling rose. Or swing-seat to drink a cold beer and gaze out at the lake. The place needed a hell of a lot of work.
He couldn’t see in, the windows at the front were shuttered up from the inside. Across the boarded-up kitchen window, a magnificently paint-sprayed cobra reared up in attack, its forked tongue smelling him out as Shaun began pulling the chipboard free from its tacks.
The board came away in his hands revealing the glass-lined edges of a smashed-in window, big enough for someone to get in and out.
Peering inside, he could see that squatters had indeed been in there.
On the floor, there was a sizable collection of empty bottles and beer cans. This place may be deserted now, but it had evidently been vandalised and used as a camp at some point.
The store owner was right, this was a place beyond the law.
With some reluctance, he tried the keys in the lock, willing each one not to fit. But depressingly one did.
His heart sank. This was it.
This was what he’d been given for all his sacrifices for Queen and Country. A twenty-seven hour flight and a four-hour drive to the ends of the earth, to find himself the proud owner of a derelict squatters’ den.
Chapter 4
---------✸---------
“You again?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Shaun squirmed slightly as he felt the shop owner’s eyes on him. He’d driven the hour back to town to try and catch the shops before they shut, and now the camping store guy was making him feel like a naughty child.
He’d been right, though. It would have been better if he’d have gone east to one of the tourist towns.
“Seen Jake’s Place for yourself, did ya?”
Shaun nodded.
“Hmm. I’m gonna need a few more things.”
“Mess was it?”
“Yeah, you could say that. It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. It’s gonna take a few days to sort. Who exactly was this Jake?”
Was it something he said? Shaun looked on surprised as the man promptly turned his back to him and disappeared into the private area behind the desk, leaving Shaun alone at the counter.
Bloody rude.
Shaun shook his head and drifted over towards the camping stoves. He’d be needing something to cook on until he got the electricity connected. And pots and a kettle. A cup and a plate. He spotted a camping chair on special offer too that would come in handy.
“Right. That’s all sorted,” the shopkeeper announced, strolling up to him.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve squared it with the Team Leader.”
“Team Leader?”
“Celia. The Missus. You’re staying at ours.”
He stretched his hand out towards him before Shaun had a chance to respond.
“I’m Frank. Frank Plunkett, good to meet ya’.”
“Err…Sion. Sion Ed…” He coughed. “Sorry, I’m Shaun Cobain, pleased to meet you too.”
“Not often we ge
t Poms straying up to these parts.”
“I’m Welsh.”
Much to Shaun’s surprise, Frank slapped him on the back.
“Well, why the bloody hell didn’t ya say? We gave you guys a fair ole whippin’ last season.”
Shaun smirked. The universal language of sport. Wales had toured New Zealand last year and had gotten a thrashing.
“Best not mention the rugby. You guys were awesome.”
Frank’s face broke into a broad grin.
“Well, that’s settled it. A rugby fan. You’re coming back to ours, no argument. Celia’s making up the bed in the sleepout for ya and I’m sure I got some of them Lions games recorded.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”
“Nonsense. ‘Course ya can. It’s a damn sight better than staying up on yer own in the middle of bloody nowhere. We’re on the road to the lake about a half-hour north of here.”
The jet lag was starting to kick in and Shaun wasn’t going to fight it.
“Frank, it’s incredibly kind of you. Thank you.”
“No worries, mate. It’s how we are ‘round here. Celia’s making a pot roast, so I ‘spect you’ll be wantin’ a feed too.”
“That’d be great.”
“We’ll get ya sorted. Right now, seems to me you could do with a shower and an early night?”
Shaun wasn’t going to argue.
“I’m about done here.”
He winked at Shaun.
“Had more than my fair share of Pommy campers for one day.”
◆◆◆
Irish shifted his feet as he queued in the line of visitors to see his brother. For a new prison, the security procedures were pretty rudimentary, lax even, with only a cursory sweep of a handheld metal detector over his body and the nebulous threat of a latex finger up his arse if they suspected him of concealing drugs.
But he was still taking a huge risk.
“You can’t take that in.”
The security guard at the front of the queue nodded towards the magazine in Irish’s hand.
“Ah, come on, Sir. It’s only a magazine,” he pleaded persuasively in a thick Liverpudlian accent he hammed up especially for the occasion. “Thought reading was good for ya la’, when you’re banged up behind bars.”
