by Jack Gatland
‘The parents all kill each other,’ Monroe replied. ‘The sons aren’t here. They all have convenient alibis. I never saw Macca kill White, he drugged me before getting out of the car. Only Stripe saw, and I’m guessing that there was a deal to be made with him?’
‘No,’ Macca sighed. ‘He was going to die too. He saw Harrison that night. We’d never know if he told anyone.’
‘I would have untied the old man, not realising of course that they had brought him here,’ Father Lawson explained. ‘But that’s a bit out of the window now.’
‘You’re rather calm for someone whose revenge plan just went out of the window,’ Declan said, looking up at the window. At the gates to the house, police cars were swarming through.
‘Not at all,’ Father Lawson held his Rosary. ‘We’re all going to prison. You can get a lot done in prison. I’ve made a lot of friends.’
‘The hell we are!’ George Byrne had been inching his hand towards his jacket, slowly for the last two minutes and now, rising and pulling his hand out, his 1887 Webley Mark 1 revolver in his hand, he fired a shot at Father Lawson, spinning around to fire a second shot at Declan—
Who fired his own weapon at George Byrne. He hadn’t meant to kill the gangster, but the movement was too fast to aim to wound, and he fired, aiming for the shoulder but catching George in the neck as he fell to the floor. There was chaos in the room, and as the police cars pulled up outside the house, Janelle Delcourt grabbed the grenade from the side, pulling the pin.
‘I’m not going to prison!’ she shouted, looking at Moses. ‘You should have killed me when you had the chance!’
Declan and Monroe dived to the side as there was a loud bang–and the simunition grenade that Doctor Marcos had stolen from SCO 19 exploded over the room. Clutching at her paint covered eyes, Janelle screamed as she fell to the floor. Declan ran over to Father Lawson, only to find that the priest was already dead. The door behind Declan crashed open, and he spun around to see DCI Bullman, Billy and Anjli burst into the room, and then pause as they observed the chaos in front of them.
‘You shot someone!’ Doctor Marcos said from behind. ‘And you said I was the reckless one!’
Declan and Monroe couldn’t help it. They started laughing, holding each other up, unable to stop as the police entered, pulling up the survivors and dragging them out.
32
End Times
It was another hour before the crime scene was truly examined, with Doctor Marcos complaining that the paint grenade had contaminated everything, while Monroe pointed out that it was her stolen grenade in the first place. Declan sat on the steps of the house, staring out at the garden, wiping some last flecks of paint from his cheek.
In the car was Alfie Mullville, staring sullenly at the chair in front of him. Declan nodded to the boy, gave him a thumbs up, but secretly he felt sorry for the kid. His parents were addicts and on the wrong side of the law most of the time; Alfie was better than that, but could never be Beorma, the mighty king of Birmingham that he wanted to be. Or maybe he would. Nobody knew what would happen now Macca and George Byrne were removed from power. At least with the Seven Sisters they’d just hire a new one, likewise The Twins replacing Danny Martin. But with the Byrnes gone, there were another series of battles about to start, with everyone vying for the crown. Declan looked over to Harrison Fennel, being placed into a car. His love for Angela had changed everything, and even from the grave, their plan to bring everything down was still happening, if not in the way that they had planned.
Anjli sat beside him on the steps, passing him a tea towel from the kitchen.
‘You got some paint on your neck,’ she said. Declan took the tea towel.
‘I need to tell you something,’ she continued. ‘About The Twins.’
‘Did you go to them like I asked?’ Declan replied. Anjli nodded.
‘Did you force them to say where we were?’ he added. Anjli, once more, nodded.
‘Then you don’t have to tell me what you think you need to,’ Declan said. ‘You’ve done more than enough for me.’
‘You need to know this, Guv,’ Anjli continued. ‘I owe The Twins. My mum, she has cancer. The NHS was going to take years, so she’s on private healthcare. It's expensive, but Johnny Lucas sorted it for me while I worked at Mile End.’
Declan nodded. ‘It's not the same as gambling debts,' he said. 'You did this to help someone else.’
‘I gave Johnny photos of your dad’s crime board,’ Anjli continued. ‘It was the only way to make a trade for the information.’
Declan didn’t ask why Anjli had photos. He didn’t have the strength to right now.
‘Sometimes you do what you need to do to get what you want,’ he replied softly. ‘And he’d have got hold of them anyway, just like he got the iMac.’
‘This is why I needed to tell you all of this,’ Anjli turned to Declan. ‘He claims he didn’t burgle your house. Someone else took the iMac.’
There was a silence as Declan took that in. Anjli broke it.
‘I just wanted you to know. I’ll be handing my resignation in later today. I won’t let Johnny or Jackie control me anymore.’
‘You’ll belay that order,’ Declan placed a hand on Anjli’s shoulder to stop her rising. ‘If you quit, you get off lightly. I’m not having another DCI Ford moment here. You stay, and you fix things.’
‘But what if I can’t?’
‘You fix things, Anjli.’ Declan thought for a moment.
‘Why did you get transferred to the Last Chance in the first place?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Is it worse than this?’
‘A little,’ Anjli reluctantly admitted. Declan nodded.
‘So something worse than grassing on your fellow officers to organised crime.’
Anjli went to reply, to contest this, but then stopped, lowering her head.
‘Well, when you put it like that…’ she muttered.
‘Whatever it was, you’re living with it every day you come to work. And you still come to work. And now we know you’re being forced to work for The Twins, we can make that work for us. Feed them information, see what we can gain from them.’
He leaned in.
‘You’re in debt to me now, DS Kapoor. And you’ll work it off by being the best damn officer you can be.’ He smiled. ‘After all, you're not the first in the squad to find themselves in that spot, and we’ll need to know who replaces Danny Martin and George Byrne.’
‘You think they’ll be replaced?’ Anjli asked. ‘I mean, we don’t really have a cast iron case here. It’s mostly word against word. And we don’t have more than Alfie Mullville and Mrs Baldwin’s witness reports to Macca murdering White.’
‘We don’t need anything,’ Declan smiled, a weary one. ‘Mama Delcourt is already pushing for a deal. They’ll all attack each other, and give us the case in the meanwhile.’
Anjli smiled for the first time as Declan looked over to Monroe and Doctor Marcos, still arguing over simunition theft.
‘Do you think they’ll ever get it together?’ Anjli asked. Declan looked to her in surprise, and she laughed. ‘Come on, you must have seen how they act around each other. And Christ, she came like a bat out of hell to save him.’
‘I can think of worse couples,’ Declan smiled, rising to meet Bullman as she approached.
‘Outstanding work, Walsh,’ she said. ‘You’ll be happy to know that Lawson’s statement about smothering Salmon has been proven truthful. Forensics at Tottenham North have confirmed Derek Salmon was murdered after you left. I still don’t understand the fingernail scratch, but you skated through. I’ll be watching you.’
And with a nod to Anjli, DCI Bullman walked back to her car.
Declan looked to Anjli. ‘I need to stretch my legs,’ he said. ‘Catch you back at Temple Inn?’
‘Later, Guv,’ Anjli walked over to Billy, currently talking to a rather attractive male police officer. ‘I need to stop DC Fitzwarren mak
ing a mistake he’ll regret tomorrow.’
Declan pulled out his cheap little burner. There was still no signal, but at some point there must have been, as a text had gotten through.
My future doesn’t involve Pete. Love that drink. X
Declan smiled to himself. Monroe saw this and walked over to him, nodding to Bullman as he passed.
‘You okay, laddie?’ he asked. ‘I ask because you’re such a morose bugger at the best of times, but here you are, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.’
‘You know how you once told me to stop talking to Kendis Taylor?’ Declan asked.
‘If I recall, I’ve repeatedly told you to stop talking to Kendis Taylor,’ Monroe replied. ‘What about it?’
‘I think I might go on a date with her.’
Monroe sighed, slapping Declan on the back. ‘And you’re a romantic bloody fool for considering that.’
He looked around for a moment, noting that they were currently alone.
‘Has Billy spoken to you yet?’ he asked. ‘About his breakfast meeting?’
Declan shook his head. ‘It’s been a bit hectic, sir.’
Monroe pulled Declan to the side.
‘He had a friend of his family, someone in the know call him, telling him to get out of the Unit, keep his distance from us,’ Monroe said. ‘Said that Charles Baker is gunning for us, and you specifically.’
‘Baker?’ Declan frowned. ‘I thought they finished his career?’
‘Apparently not,’ Monroe tapped the side of his nose. ‘So be aware, sonny. People are watching us, and not for our witty personas and dynamic conversational skills.’
As Monroe walked off, Declan stared around the driveway; at Billy and Anjli, currently arguing following Anjli’s cock-blocking attempt and then at Monroe and Doctor Marcos, still fighting over paintball guns.
These were his family now.
Even DC Davey back in Temple Inn was family, although she was definitely a kind of distant step-sister; one that was often left in examination rooms and morgues way longer than a woman her age should be. And to hear from Monroe right now that someone wanted to break up that family?
Declan Walsh was going to have words.
Before LETTER FROM THE DEAD…
Before MURDER OF ANGELS…
There was
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Prologue
Of all the Livery Companies in London, Charles Baker reckoned that the Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers was the most pointless.
Usually known as the Stationer’s Company, it was formed way back in 1403, although it had to wait until 1557 for its Royal Patronage. Many people claimed that it was an Elizabethan patronage, and this was the start of the ‘Golden Age’, but the fact of the matter was that 1557 was still very much in the time of her sister, Mary I. She was better known as Bloody Mary, a nickname given mainly because of her persecution of Protestant heretics, burning hundreds at the stake during her reign, and therefore this long established printing and stationer guild’s ‘Royal Patronage’ was bathed in infamy from the very start.
Charles was a fan of the earlier versions of the guild; illuminated manuscripts were beautiful things, and Charles was very much a fan of beautiful things. It was just that once technology (in this case the simple printing press) replaced the art of calligraphy, a kind of crassness came into the industry. The stationers stopped non-members from having the right to copy texts; that’s where the term copyright came from. And from the printers came the publishers, and then the publishers created the newspapers.
And Charles Baker hated the newspapers.
Nowadays, though, the Stationer’s Company represented more of the content and communications industries. This included digital media and software, and worse still, advertising and PR. Probably not what the poor buggers who created the guild over six hundred years ago had ever envisioned; that their beautiful, artistically designed manuscript guild would one day be filled with bloody Instagram influencers, science fiction authors, and people like Rupert Murdoch and William sodding Hague.
But as much as he despised many of the members, he couldn’t fault the fact that they threw a damn good party.
In fact, it was a party that they threw that Charles Baker now found himself at, standing at the head table in the Livery Hall, with dozens of guildsmen watching him as he prepared to speak. It was an amazing location for a speech; deep mahogany wood paneling covered most of each wall, with a variety of hand-lettered members lists, portraits of liverymen, flags or even coats of honour adorning each one, with the top third of the wall (and the ornate ceiling above him) painted cream and gold, with guild flags hanging above heraldic shields. And when the windows weren’t looking out into London, they were replaced with beautiful stained glass windows of ancient printers such as William Tyndale or William Caxton, given the same reverence that a church might give to a saint.
It felt religious. It felt as if he was giving a sermon.
Which, in a way, he was.
‘Thank you, Master of Company,’ he said to the wizened old man in the tuxedo that now sat to his left, ‘for that wonderful introduction. And thank you,’ this was to the hall itself, ‘for giving me such a warm welcome.’
There was a small smattering of applause at this. Charles forced a smile.
‘As a Member of Parliament, I have had an interesting history with the Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think that all Members of Parliament have, at times, had a similar situation.’
There was a low rumble of polite laughter. Charles allowed it to build and fall before he continued.
‘When I was a child, printing fascinated me,’ he continued. ‘To be able to place words onto paper and change a single mind in the process was nothing short of a miracle to me, and it probably was the one thing that set me off on the career path that I chose.’ He paused for a moment, allowing the silence to fill the room. ‘But although it set me on my journey, it hasn’t been that kind to me.’
The room was still silent, but now the atmosphere had changed, as if the other invited guests had realised that this wasn’t the speech that they had been expecting.
‘As many of you know, a few weeks ago my beautiful, wonderful wife, Donna, passed away,’ Charles continued, allowing a hint of emotion to creep into his voice. ‘She had suffered from mental issues for much of her life, including clinical depression. And when the national press started attacking me, started commenting on a child I’d had out of wedlock a life ago, before we even met, a child that that I hadn’t known that I was the father of, it proved too much for her. And she took her own life.’
There was a muttering in the hall after this. Charles had never publicly spoken about how Donna had died. They had believed it was because of illness, not because of a noose in the Baker house’s underground garage. Charles carried on.
‘It’s true,’ he continued. ‘And I will never forgive you, the ones that did this. I will hunt you down and I will destroy you.’
He was enjoying this.
‘I look up and I see Caxton and Tyndale, the fathers of printing and I wonder, what would they say if they saw this travesty that sits here before them? Would they, like Doctor Frankenstein, be appalled at the monster they had created?’
The murmuring was building now; an angry rumble, as the people sitting at the tables now realised that this wasn’t a simple after-dinner speech.
This was a spanking.
‘I may not be the Secretary of State for the Home Depar
tment anymore, but I still read the briefings,’ Charles said. ‘And I’ve seen the building gang war that is occurring between Birmingham and London, a war that you yourselves have given life to, after your reckless reporting of the murders of Angela Martin and Gabrielle Chapman in the national press. You cannot run unchecked—‘
‘But that was stopped!’ A portly man at one of the closer tables shouted out. ‘It was on the news tonight!’
Charles paused. The man spoke with such belief that for a moment Charles wondered if he’d been mistaken. Glancing down at his phone, turned over on the table and switched to silent mode so as not to distract him, he picked it up, abandoning his speech for the moment as he turned the phone in his hands and saw the notifications of missed calls and left messages. Reading them, he nodded to himself.
‘My apologies,’ he continued. ‘I was in session directly before this, so I hadn’t seen the news. And yes, it seems that both the Delcourt family and the Byrne family have been taken into custody following a police raid on a Beachampton residence.’ He straightened his shoulders, giving the appearance of someone proud.
‘I’m happy to say that the unit that solved this case comes from the City; in fact, their offices are less than a mile from here. And the arresting Detective Inspector is the same one that saved my own life several weeks ago. Our police are a credit to us, if woefully understaffed. But that doesn’t stop the fact that this wouldn’t have escalated so fast if there had been some order, some regulatory aspect to your radical news agenda.’ He was back on track now, casting aside the bad news as he pushed forward. ‘And if I become Prime Minister, I will ensure that all media, be it traditional press or digital, will follow the rule of law. I hereby put you on notice.’
