by Jack Gatland
Copyright © 2021 by Jack Gatland
All rights reserved.
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This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author, unless for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, places of learning, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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LETTER FROM THE DEAD
MURDER OF ANGELS
HUNTER HUNTED
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WHISPER FOR THE REAPER
(Coming April 2021)
TO HUNT A MAGPIE
(Coming June 2021)
BEHIND THE WIRE
(Coming August 2021)
A RITUAL FOR THE DYING
(Coming October 2021)
To Mum.
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, they formed it way back in 1403, although it had to wait until 1557 for its Royal Patronage. Many people claimed it was an Elizabethan patronage, and this was the start of the Elizabethan ‘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’ had been 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 panelling 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 who 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 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 an overdose, or 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 Office anymore, but I still read the briefings,’ Charles said. ‘And I’ve seen the rising 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 conviction 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 earlier today.’ 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 seve
ral 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 ever get the chance to make such a change, I will ensure that all media, be it traditional press or digital, will follow the rule of law. I hereby put you on notice.’
And with that, to a cacophony of complaints from guild members as they rose from their tables, Charles Baker placed his phone into his jacket pocket and, his work done here, turned to leave the table. However, blocking his way was the man who’d introduced him, the Right Reverend Doctor Reginald Walsingham, the current Master of Company.
‘Interesting speech,’ he whispered. ‘If we’d known you were coming to tell us off, we would have called the current Home Secretary to replace you. I mean, we invited you when you still held the role, not when you became nothing more than a backbencher.’
‘I’m far more than a backbencher,’ Charles replied with a smile. ‘You think these articles, these news reports hurt me? Things that I did when I was young and single, that I was never informed about? Follies of youth.’
‘And the reports of Devington Industries working with you on arms contracts? On the rumours of illegal arms trades? Of Rattlestone?’ Reginald raised an eyebrow. Charles laughed at this.
‘Walk into the House of Commons on any Prime Minister’s Question Time and throw a stone,’ he said. ‘I guarantee that whoever you hit on whatever side will have the same industry-related skeleton in their closet. Yes, I have made questionable choices in my career, but I have something better on my side.’
He leaned in.
‘I have public sympathy.’
Reginald stared coldly at Charles for a long moment before speaking.
‘You almost sound like you killed her deliberately to gain the widower vote,’ he said.
‘Old man, that’s a very cynical view of life you have there,’ Charles replied. ‘But rumours are rumours and facts are facts.’ He looked up to the stained window where a Latin phrase was emblazoned under the image of a man arguing with another over a proffered piece of parchment.
‘Verbum Domini Manet In Aeternum’, he said. ‘Interesting motto.’
‘The word of God remains forever,’ Reginald translated. Charles nodded.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m not a pleb. I did Latin at Harrow. I was just considering that you might think about changing it.’
‘To what?’
Charles leaned in.
‘The word of law remains forever,’ he finished before patting the shoulder of the Master of Company, waving to the room of dinner guests and, with his Special Branch guards either side of him, marched determinedly out of the hall, the sound of angry diners rising behind him as he left.
‘Where to, sir?’ His bodyguard asked as Charles climbed into the back of his Ministerial car. He might have been nothing more than a backbencher to the public now, but that was for the masses to believe. He was destined for far greater things, and the party knew this; they had made concessions for him.
‘The George,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I’m running late.’
The George Inn was a pub off Southwark High Street, just south of the Thames. It was an old medieval coaching inn where Charles Dickens had once drunk, although that debatable claim could probably be given to most of the pubs and taverns in London. A long, white painted, galleried and timber-framed pub, it was mainly a series of interconnected bars with a restaurant and function room upstairs. It was to the latter of these that Charles, now in a thick coat, scarf and hat to disguise his identity, made his way up rickety stairs, opening the door on his left and entering a small, quiet room with windows along one wall.
In the room were four other people, all Members of Parliament. Malcolm Gladwell was the trouble-shooter of the Conservative party, and the MP for some pokey little Berkshire dump that had been too stupid to vote him out in the last election. Stick thin and with curly ginger hair, Gladwell was a sickeningly fit, bio-hacking ultra-runner in his late forties who looked a decade younger, thanks in part to the multitude of expensive supplements he sucked down every day. Like a cockroach, he’d most likely survive everyone.
Next to him sat Tamara Banks, one of Charles’ rivals for the Conservative throne; in her early forties and resembling the bastard daughter of Cruella De Vil and Heinrich Himmler, Banks was a toxic Thatcherite, more right-wing than most of her party, a woman that had gained power and influence during the Vote Leave campaign, but was distanced enough to keep her reputation once Brexit polarised everyone.
Watching out of the window was Jerry Robinson, an Ulster Democrat. Squat both in stature and intellect, and patting down his greasy, dyed-black hair as he stared at the young, attractive women in the beer patio below, Jerry was a devout creationist who didn’t believe in dinosaurs, believing that they were a test from God to see if humankind’s faith was strong enough.
Charles thought that Jerry Robinson was a test from God. That, or a rather annoying joke.
The last person in the room was a Labour MP, one that Charles had known back when he was on the red side of the Commons. Norman Shipman was old, ancient even, nothing more than a well-dressed skeleton under stretched-tight skin. He’d been an MP back when Jim Callaghan was in charge back in the seventies and every battle, every fight was etched into his face. He’d spent his entire political career on the back benches; but Charles knew from experience that this was where he did his best work.
In the shadows, in rooms like this, and with people just like the ones that Charles faced right now.
‘You’re late,’ Tamara complained. Charles didn’t bother to reply. Complaining about someone when they arrived was simply Tamara’s way of saying hello to them.
‘I see your man’s in the news again,’ Malcolm smiled. ‘If he keeps this up, we might have to promote him to DCI.’
‘He’s not my man,’ Charles poured himself a wine from a bottle on the side table before turning to face the others. ‘And to be honest, I’d have preferred it if he delayed a few days.’
‘So where are we on these?’ Straight to business, Jerry drank from his bottle of tonic water. He didn’t use a glass, just the tiny bottle. It looked ludicrous.
‘Do I have permission to move on with the target I informed you of during the last session?’ Charles asked. Malcolm looked to Norman, as if waiting for guidance. Even though he was of a different political party, Norman Shipman was the obvious leading force in the room.
He nodded.
‘I call this session of the Star Chamber open,’ he said, his voice cracked with a mixture of age and far too many cigarettes.
Charles released his held breath as he leaned onto the table he sat beside.
‘As I said last time, I put forward an extremist terrorist to include in the lists,’ he spoke carefully, ensuring that he didn’t mis-speak, or understate anything that he was revealing. ‘We believe she was radicalised in Syria two years ago and, since returning to the UK, she’s been running as part of a terrorist cell in South West London with a UK born and radicalised, London based handler.’
‘Do we have any idea about what her plan is?’ Tamara asked. Charles shook his head.
‘All I know is that after we investigated her, she met with my wife the same day... The same day that Donna killed herself.’
‘And you think this extremist caused your wife’s death?’ Tamara seemed appalled, but Charles guessed it was a more mawkish curiosity.
‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘And I believe she is a danger to our Government.’
‘We shall put the name into the lists for consideration,’ Norman nodded slowly, looking to the others. ‘Any refusals?’
As the other MPs in the function room agreed to this decision one by one, Charles quickly tapped off a text on his phone under the table, sending it off before Norman looked back to him:
flick the switch
‘And the name to be added?’ Norman asked, returning Charles to the conversation.
‘Taylor,’ Charles Baker replied. ‘The extremist terrorist’s name is Kendis Taylor.’
The man with the rimless glasses sat in his car, parked on the pavement at Tudor Street, deep in the City of London. He’d been there for close to an hour now, watching the evening trade at the wine bar to his right as, ahead of him, he monitored the white bricked, arched entrance into Temple Inn. There was a large, black gate and a yellow and black barrier blocking his way into the Inns of Temple, and the guard would be in the cabin to the side of it. That said, people walked in and out all the time with no issues, and the man with the rimless glasses knew the guards paid them no heed, especially when they dressed in overcoat, scarf and suit.
His phone beeped with a message; glancing down, he read it. The man with the rimless glasses didn’t recognise the number, but he knew who the order had come from. He’d known ever since he’d moved allegiances, since they had freed him from custody under ministerial conduct subclauses, creating this new legend, this new identity of sorts for him.
And he knew what the order meant.
Leaving the car, the man with the rimless glasses made his way through the entrance to the right of the arch, past the notice that stated that only residents could bring their dogs through and, keeping his head down he passed the guard who didn’t even glance at him in passing, reading that night’s edition of The Evening Standard and ignoring the suited man who continued down Temple Lane, and out into King’s Bench Walk.
Turning right as he entered the large courtyard, the man with the rimless glasses carried on along King’s Bench Walk, stopping when he reached a particular door. It was late in the evening, and he knew that nobody else would be in; the target was still there though, as his car was outside, parked in a bay opposite the entrance. Checking to ensure that nobody was watching, the man with the rimless glasses entered the City of London police’s Temple Inn Crime Unit, otherwise known as the offices of the Last Chance Saloon.
