by Nick Oldham
‘They thought he’d died in Afghanistan,’ Henry said, ‘but he didn’t, did he?’
TWENTY
‘You don’t have to be afraid of me. You’re my darling daughter, the innocent one in all this,’ Jack Marsh cooed, his eyes full of love. ‘We can work through this, make a good life for ourselves. Us – me and you, together.’
Ginny Marsh quivered in fear, her face pulsed, her breathing laboured and dithery as she looked up at the man standing in front of her.
‘I’m your dad. I came back for you,’ he tried to convince her.
Ginny’s whole body trembled.
‘Listen, my darling.’ He squatted down in front of her, bringing himself to her eye level. He stroked her greasy matted hair. ‘Do you want to talk now? Shall we talk? You know, dad and daughter things? I’ll take the tape off but you must promise not to shout or scream or back on it goes. I know it’s early days yet, I know this is a big change for you and I understand your trepidation … so?’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘You’ll keep your voice down?’
She nodded.
‘Obviously I can’t untie you yet,’ he said and slid his hand off her hair, across her cheek and with a swift jerk he ripped the gaffer tape from her mouth.
She gasped, sucked in air.
‘Where’s Mum? Where is she? What’ve you done to her?’ Ginny demanded in a croaky voice.
‘Here, here, calm down now.’ Jack Marsh picked up a small bottle of water. ‘Drink some of this. You need to rehydrate, then we talk, eh? A saline drip isn’t like real drinking water, is it?’
He flipped the sports cap back and held the bottle towards her mouth.
Ginny was sitting on a creaky old metal-frame camp bed with her hands fastened behind her by plasticuffs, whilst her ankles were bound together by tape. It was only in the last hour that the drip had been removed, although a cannula was still in place on her inner right elbow, and she was only now beginning to think straight and realize that it had been much more than saline and water going into her system. She had been drugged, kept sedated, just on the verge of consciousness, a swirling, unfocused world that made no sense to her until the effect of the drugs began to wear off at last.
It had all been a terrible nightmare from the moment the syringe had been plunged into her neck on the hospital car park, right up until now. She had no conception of how long she had been held, it could have been hours or weeks, but as her mind cleared, she knew it had been a long time.
She did not know where she was.
In a room, possibly a cellar, with no natural light, reeking of damp and shit and piss.
As she inhaled these aromas and glanced down at her body, now dressed in jogging pants and a loose-fitting top, she felt nauseous at the thought that if he had been held for days, virtually unconscious, then she must have had ‘toilet needs’ and this man must have seen to them.
She took the water bottle between her teeth, tipped her head back and sucked. The water tasted cold and beautiful and she swallowed until she began to choke when the man removed the bottle.
‘That’s enough,’ he said.
Ginny glared at him. ‘Where’s my mother?’
‘You mean your utter bitch of a stepmother? We don’t need her any longer. From now on,’ his voice began gentle as he promised something as though she was desperate to hear it, ‘it’s just us.’
Donaldson changed the dressings on Henry’s arm. The wounds were clean, uninfected and healing well, but they still hurt and Henry winced as Donaldson peeled the last strip away and tugged his hairs.
‘Softie,’ Donaldson said.
‘That’s me,’ Henry agreed.
They had travelled out of London by train to Donaldson’s house in the village of Hartley Wintney in Hampshire, where he had lived with his family for many years now.
His wife, Karen, appeared in the lounge bearing two mugs of tea. She had once been a cop in Lancashire and when they had first met – when she was a detective inspector and Henry merely a detective sergeant – they could easily have ripped each other’s throats out. Now they were good friends. She had retired from the police after transferring to the Metropolitan, but still worked on short contracts delivering management training.
Henry took the mug, wincing again as he moved his arm. He wasn’t a great tea drinker but was looking forward to it refreshing him rather than giving him a coffee-style kick.
‘How are you?’ she asked tenderly.
‘I’d shrug, but it hurts,’ he said. ‘So-so.’
They looked at each other, neither able to find words.
‘I need to catch up on paperwork,’ she said to Donaldson and left the two men sitting in the conservatory.
Donaldson squeezed antiseptic cream onto the wound and carefully re-bandaged it as Henry sipped his brew.
‘Think he’ll keep his word?’ Henry asked.
‘I think you forced his hand, while I forced his head,’ Donaldson said, ‘but if he doesn’t, then going to the media might not help because he’ll just slap a D notice on it and kill it.’
‘I could tweet it,’ Henry said. ‘Hashtag MI5 hit squad.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ Donaldson said dubiously. He finished the dressing and went into the kitchen to wash his hands as Henry eased his shirt back on. When he returned he sat opposite Henry on one of the cane-backed chairs with his mug of tea. ‘I think he’ll play – on his terms,’ he said, ‘and that’s probably the best we can expect.’
Henry nodded, then said ferociously, ‘How could they not have told Alison her husband was still alive?’
‘Would sort have given the game away, wouldn’t it? He – Jack – obviously made his own choice for whatever reason, probably money and kudos, then eventually went off the rails.’
‘Fuck.’ Henry shook his head.
‘The bed’s made up in the spare room,’ Donaldson said. ‘Get some sleep. You look like death warmed up, my old buddy.’
‘It just bothers me that every second, every fucking second we waste puts us a second further away from finding Ginny.’
‘Jack Marsh was one of the most natural marksmen I have ever come across,’ Major Smith said.
Smith was not in uniform. He had arranged to meet Henry and Donaldson at a motorway service area on the M5 north of Tewkesbury to save the pair having to travel all the way across the country to Hereford, where he and the SAS were based. That said, it had still been a grim, almost four-hour journey in a sea of traffic first on the M4, then on the M5.
More time wasted, Henry had moaned.
But at least he had slept well in Donaldson’s house. Hearing the sounds of a normal household, the TV, whinging teenagers, pots and pans clattering, even some bickering between husband and wife, had sent him off to bed feeling relaxed for once. There had only been one nightmare, when he woke clutching his head, sweating, trying to blank out the image of Alison’s murdered body coming to life and walking towards him, pleading with him to save her.
Henry hadn’t realized he had screamed, but Donaldson had quickly appeared at his bedroom door in his night shorts.
‘You OK, pal?’
‘Yeah, yeah, fine.’ Henry flopped back on the bed, the fresh sheets now sweat-laden. He rested his head on the soft pillow, feeling a pulse of pain along the line where he imagined the fracture had been. He exhaled long and hard. ‘You know summat?’ he said, his Lancashire accent coming out.
‘What?’
‘Nah, nothing, I’m OK.’
Donaldson nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door.
What he had been about to say was that in all this mayhem and upset and grief, other than getting an occasional sympathetic pat on the shoulder, he had never had a long hug from anyone. He hadn’t said this to Donaldson because it sounded pathetic.
He felt very alone.
He began to weep silently for himself and his loss.
Then he had slept well and after a quick breakfast he and Donaldson were on the road in the big Jeep after a confirma
tion phone call from Smith.
‘He was a killer. Good with a knife – hence his codename Stiletto, but most people called him Blade …’
‘His chums, you mean?’ Henry interrupted sarcastically.
Smith ignored him. ‘He was physically excellent too. Knew martial arts, kung fu, judo, could break a man’s neck just like that!’ Smith clicked his fingers loudly, the exact sound of a neck breaking.
‘I’ve seen his handiwork,’ Henry said.
Smith said, ‘I know and I’m sorry.’ He meant it, but went on, ‘It’s part of my remit to identify people like Jack to certain members of the intelligence services.’
‘Yeah, right, I get that,’ Henry said irritably. ‘A hit squad. I can live with that, but how could he get chosen and his wife not find out?’
‘Did she ever talk to you about him?’ Smith asked.
‘Not really. It was a very private matter and I didn’t pry. Maybe when we got married more would have been revealed.’
‘It was how it had to be,’ Smith said. ‘We were just at the point of approaching him for The Unit anyway, when it all kind of fell into our lap.’
‘How so?’ Donaldson asked.
Smith sighed uncomfortably. ‘An army patrol in Afghanistan was cornered in a village full of Taliban hostiles. A firefight ensued and an SAS patrol came to assist. It got very bloody and a lot of good men lost their lives that day faced with overwhelming numbers and shit equipment. Two survived, Jack and one other and fuck knows how. Anyway, Jack went back the day after – alone – and laid up on a flat rooftop in the village for four days and subsequently took out two of the Taliban leaders responsible for the massacre. It was very messy but an opportunity was seen in it all for Jenkins to approach Jack and offer him something … his death and a life beyond. He made the offer, Jack accepted,’ Smith concluded weakly.
‘The offer being?’ Donaldson asked.
‘To be declared dead and then go undercover with another identity, or many other identities – and work for The Unit. Jack’s dead body was put together from a few other mangled corpses who had been blown to bits and he was brought back to England and buried. His wife, she was a medic out there in Afghanistan, never knew. From what I remember their marriage was at breaking point anyway, wasn’t working.’
‘So she buried bits of other people thinking it was her husband?’ Henry said in total incredulity. Smith nodded. ‘You bastards,’ Henry said. ‘And he had – has – a daughter from his first marriage. Alison took her under her wing, brought her up, like a real mother and daughter.’
‘I know.’ Smith swallowed. ‘It was his decision, he could have walked but he didn’t. He played the game, was very well paid, lived in nice, but rented, apartments in Madrid, London, always close to an airport so he could drop everything at a moment’s notice …’
‘And go around the world killing people,’ Henry finished, disgusted.
‘Correct,’ Smith said. ‘And he was bloody good at it. He was regularly psychologically evaluated but about two years ago tiny cracks started to show. This is one of his assessments from about that time.’
He slid a sheet of paper across to Henry, who took it and read through a few paragraphs of what was clearly a redacted document. The psychologist’s name had been blanked out, as had Jack’s, so Henry only had Smith’s word that it referred to Marsh at all. Certain words and phrases stood out, though.
‘I have evaluated this operative … he has become very morose and is prone to excessive bouts of bad temper and dark moods … he has begun talking about his wife and daughter again … he would like to see them again and lay down roots … go back to his former life, but realizes this is not an option. He says he dreams about them now and then, sees their faces … I believe he is becoming jaded and his future may have to be reconsidered. Some of his thinking is quite jumbled and incoherent and his decision-making in tests is flawed. I will re-evaluate in six months’ time as per normal. For the time being I recommend he remains in active service as I believe his practical skills remain first class …’
Henry passed it to Donaldson, who read through it.
‘We knew he’d had enough when he executed some villagers in a failed West African state we were trying to assist in a civil war. He tied them up and blew their brains out. All were innocent people. That’s when we brought him in,’ Smith said then pushed another sheet across to Henry, similar to the first one, redacted with thick black lines and other crossings out.
‘The patient,’ it began – and Henry immediately noted the different phrasing, from operative to patient – ‘shows all the signs and symptoms of bipolar depression and psychosis. He says he has been to see and watch his ex-wife from afar since our last meeting.’ There, Henry’s insides curdled. ‘He tells me she has betrayed him and he intends to “put that right”. He has started calling her a “bitch” and “slag” and other such derogatory terms.’
So Jack Marsh had been watching them even before this assessment took place. Watching him, Alison, Ginny.
‘His thought processes are now quite muddled but in a much more severe way than previously. He tells me he has seen too much violence and blood, too many dead and decaying people and now constantly dreams of exploding heads and has bouts of severe nausea when he recalls the reek of his kills … I recommend that consideration be given to removing the patient from active service.’
‘Consideration?’ spat Henry. ‘Typical mind-doctor, frightened to nail his colours to the mast. Jack Marsh was clearly raving mad at this stage. Pah!’
‘I have to say,’ Smith said, ‘that his state of mind might be the only reason you are still alive. If it was him you surprised in the car park, and then in Ginny’s room … yeah, yeah, I’m sure it was,’ Smith defended himself off the look of horror on Henry’s face. ‘If he had been thinking straight, we would not be here having this conversation. He has the tools in his fingers on his left hand to kill you outright. He didn’t.’
‘Makes me feel a whole lot better to know I’m alive and Alison isn’t. But that said, you lot had two bites at the cherry, didn’t you? Even RedFour couldn’t kill me,’ Henry said sourly.
Donaldson cut into the tension between the two men. ‘OK – do we need to know any more?’
‘Only that he broke the necks of two nurses before breaking out of the secure unit.’
Henry sighed heavily and nodded. ‘That it?’
‘I was told to bring you up to speed with Jack Marsh’s details, and I have done.’
‘You could tell us where to find him, that might help.’
‘I have no idea where he is …’
Henry sensed a ‘but’.
‘I haven’t given you any of these,’ Smith said. He reached into his attaché case and pulled a hefty pile of documents. ‘Photocopies … Do whatever you want with them, but don’t say I gave them to you. I want him captured as much as you. He was a good man and a good operative but sometimes a weakness up here’ – he tapped the side of his head – ‘can never be seen until it’s too late. It happens. But he needs bringing in and that’s down to you, I’m afraid. I hope you find him and I am truly sorry for your loss, Mr Christie … and one other thing: you underestimate and challenge Mr Jenkins at your peril.’
They stood up and shook hands.
‘Could I possibly have a word with you alone, Mr Christie?’ Smith said. ‘Just before you hit the road.’
Donaldson cut back onto the motorway and up to Birmingham, where he dropped Henry at New Street Station. Henry caught a train back to Preston. He managed to get a single window seat with a small table and after buying coffee and a sandwich, he took out the file Smith had given him.
It contained Jack Marsh’s military record from joining as a raw recruit at sixteen, following his career on to the SAS up to his untimely death at the hands of the Taliban. It included details of his two marriages and his only child, Virginia.
‘The collusion of the establishment,’ Henry grunted, drawing a stare from a
man sitting across the aisle from him. After all, this was a quiet carriage.
Then Henry read something that made him sit up. He got out his mobile phone and called Rik Dean – which really annoyed the guy across the aisle – but after that he settled back. He watched the world whizz by at 125 mph and fell asleep, waking just as the train pulled into Preston.
After paying the extortionate parking fee, Henry picked up his car and drove the short distance to Preston nick, where a major incident room had been established by Rik, combining the murders and incidents that had happened at Kendleton together with the terrible events at RPH. There was a purpose-built MIR at the station, always ready and fully equipped with the technical resources necessary to get an investigation up and running. Just add staff.
Rik came to meet Henry at the front desk and signed him in, then took him to the MIR where Henry handed over the file Smith had given him.
‘It might help,’ Henry said. He looked beyond tired, the London trip having taken its toll. His head hurt, his arm throbbed and his heart ached. ‘It’s got all his army records in there plus details of all his undercover legends and details of all the debit and credit cards issued to him under his various aliases, and guess what? They are all still up and running and he has access to the funds therein.’
‘You are joking me.’
‘No I’m not. You need to access these accounts and get the banks watching them all for activity. He could still be using them.’
‘They haven’t cancelled them?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Which might be a good thing now. Plus there is something else I didn’t know but which could be good news for us … Look at his date and place of birth.’
Rik looked. ‘Jesus! He was born and bred in Preston.’
‘Yep, he’s a local lad, which I had no clue about, but people always come home, don’t they?’
‘That’s great,’ Rik said. ‘But when we do catch him, and we will, Henry, I promise, how will we explain this lot to the defence lawyers when it comes to disclosure?’ Rik was referring to the duty of the prosecution to declare everything in their possession to the defence under the rules of disclosure. ‘That we just found it?’
