by Jack Gatland
Detective Chief Inspector Alexander Monroe was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep, scratching at his short, white beard as he stared at his laptop screen, trying to will the words on it to stop swirling around the display as he tried to type. Earlier that day they had drugged him while in Birmingham; a nasty little bugger named Gamma Hydroxy butyric Acid, better known as Liquid Ecstasy on the club scene, given to him by an equally nasty little bugger, the corrupt police officer Detective Inspector White, shortly before White himself had been killed like a dog in the street by Birmingham gangsters. Monroe had woken up in a basement in Beachampton, rescued by his own Detective Inspector, Declan Walsh and, after wrapping up the case with the help of a large amount of bravado, bluff and a simunition grenade, Monroe was checked over by the Divisional Surgeon, Doctor Rosanna Marcos, who had fussed over him like a bloody mother hen before allowing his team to take him back to the office. He’d sent everyone else home, saying he just wanted to finish up before leaving, but the fact of the matter was that Monroe didn’t want to go home. He didn’t feel safe anywhere outside of his own office right now.
And when he closed his eyes, he had a fear, an irrational one, that he would wake up like last time.
Handcuffed and gagged in a basement.
And so Monroe had started this letter, trying to take his mind off the gnawing terror in the pit of his stomach. He’d already tried napping on the office sofa to see if that helped; it didn’t.
However, the sound of someone walking up the stairs into the primary office stopped him.
Rising from his desk, he walked into the open plan office, watching the door. Nobody was due back, and the steps were heavy. A man’s shoes.
The man with the rimless glasses emerged through the entrance into the room, stopping when he saw Monroe watching him. Middle-aged with short, dark brown hair, the man with the rimless glasses looked more like an accountant than an assassin.
‘I know you,’ Monroe intoned. ‘We arrested you in Devington Hall.’
The man with the rimless glasses nodded, sauntering towards Monroe. He also knew that Monroe had been spiked earlier that day; he was relying on this to slow the old man’s reactions, to make him an easier target to take down. Monroe however hadn’t finished, still trying to clear his fuddled brain.
‘You’re the one that attacked Declan outside his apartment,’ he continued. The man with the rimless glasses nodded once more, still continuing towards Monroe. He flicked his right wrist, and a vicious looking extendable baton flicked out.
‘If this means anything to you, it’s nothing personal,’ he said as he raised it.
Alexander Monroe nodded, already realising that he wasn’t fast enough to stop this attack, especially with the remnants of the GHB still in his system.
‘So this is how it ends, eh laddie?’ he asked calmly. The man with the rimless glasses thought for a moment, considering Monroe’s last words.
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ he said.
And then he struck.
1
New Beginnings
Declan hadn’t meant to stay the night.
The whole evening had started off innocently. Fresh from Beachampton, having solved the case and completed the arrests of the people involved, Declan had sent Kendis a text, saying that he wanted to see her. This was, of course, only after she’d texted him, saying that she believed that her future wasn’t with her husband, Peter.
This wasn’t an affair.
Was it?
Declan laid in Kendis’ marital bed, staring up at the ceiling. They’d intended to share a celebratory drink, nothing more. Declan had promised to keep Kendis in the loop, to give her the exclusive story, and that’s how the evening had begun. Kendis had suggested a Chelsea pub, and they’d met there around eight. But, as the evening progressed, they’d drunk more, reminiscing about their past and toasting people like Patrick Walsh, Declan’s late father, who had been working with Kendis on his memoirs before he died. That had led to more toasts. And then a conversation where Kendis had informed Declan conspiratorially that Peter wasn’t at home that night, that he was in a conference in Hull for the next day or so.
Things weren’t supposed to progress this fast.
But progress they did, and by midnight Declan and Kendis were back at her house, pulling off their clothes, as they pawed at each other like the teenagers they had been the last time they had been this intimate.
It was only afterwards that Kendis had mentioned that she hadn’t yet discussed her problems with Pete, and that this evening was something that even she hadn’t expected to happen.
This was an affair.
Declan was angry at himself. Earlier that same week he’d expressed jealousy at Lizzie, his estranged ex-wife, going on a date with another man. She hadn’t even gone on it yet, and he was jealous. How would he have reacted if this had been the other way around, and that she had slept with someone?
He glanced over to Kendis, still asleep in the bed next to him, her bare, dark-skinned shoulder visible under a mass of curly black hair. She was facing away and breathing heavily in her sleep, seemingly a lot more comfortable about this than he was right now.
He couldn’t help it; he smiled. Kendis had always been the one that had gotten away, and that there was a chance, no matter how small that he could regain something believed lost made him excited, and gave him butterflies. But he knew that this had to build with time. This was too fast. And what was worse, if it came out that they had slept together before Kendis and Peter filed for divorce, this would give Peter a far greater advantage in any court proceedings.
He was an idiot for doing this.
His phone, currently in his trouser pocket halfway across the room vibrated, the faint buzzing audible in the quiet morning. Declan looked to the clock beside the bed; it wasn’t even six in the morning. Calls before six were never good.
Climbing carefully out of the bed so as not to awaken Kendis, Declan pulled on his boxers and knelt beside the trousers, pulling out the phone. It was Anjli, but it had already gone to voicemail. Now awake, he pulled on his shirt and socks, hearing the faint ding of a message on his phone, informing him he had a new voicemail. Connecting to it, Declan sat on the floor of the bedroom for a long minute as he silently listened.
It was another minute before he disconnected the call and texted one simple line back.
On my way
This done, he looked back to Kendis, still asleep. He couldn’t wake her with this news; he’d explain later. And, pulling on his trousers, he made his way out of the bedroom carefully, closing the door silently behind him, gathering his discarded clothing, often entangled with items that had been discarded by Kendis and pulling them on as he paused by the front door.
There was a photo on the side cabinet, one of Kendis and Peter at some event. Maybe their wedding, or some kind of gala. They looked happy. Looking back up the stairs, Declan wondered what right he had to stop this, to end this happiness. Who could tell if Kendis wouldn’t change her mind? That she’d stay with Peter and class Declan as a simple one-night stand?
Shaking off the thought, Declan emerged from the house into the cool morning air. It was just gone six in the morning now; the street was still empty, the morning rush hour having not started yet in Putney. However, as he started down the path towards the street, an elderly woman was walking towards the house next door. She was small and frail, a mop of white hair under a scarf worn over a purple coat, and in her hand was both a bottle of milk and a newspaper. Declan assumed that she’d been to the corner shop early, perhaps to pick up supplies for her morning tea or coffee, and now she looked blearily up at Declan as he passed.
‘Morning Pete,’ she said before continuing with ‘ooh, sorry.’
‘I’m his cousin,’ Declan lied quickly with a smile. ‘Had a bit too much. Stayed the night.’ He didn’t stop, but carried on past her, hoping that she wasn’t so close to Kendis’ husband that she’d mention the strange man that came out of his house
at six am. The woman seemed to accept this story, however, continuing into her house without a second glance. She didn’t watch Declan stand on the street, confused where his car was until seeing it a few yards away, realising that he must have driven back to Putney well over the legal limit.
He didn’t look back to her, either.
Which was a shame, as if he had, he might have looked up at the bedroom window, seeing Kendis Taylor, wrapped only in the duvet, staring down at him.
The drive from Putney to The Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel was just under ten miles, mainly along the Battersea Park Road, following the Thames eastwards through Battersea, Vauxhall and Kennington, circling the annoying roundabout that enclosed the Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre before heading north across Tower Bridge and connecting to Commercial Road. In a normal car, driving at rush hour, you could expect to do this in just under an hour; with the lights and siren on, Declan was there in twenty-five minutes.
Pulling up outside the main entrance with a squeal of braking tyres that most likely woke the whole neighbourhood, Declan ran from the Audi without locking it, sprinting towards the modern looking red brick and glass building, continuing through the glass doored main entrance, waving his warrant card at anyone who looked official.
‘Where’s the ICU?’ he yelled at practically everyone as he paused in the reception area, a wide expanse of glass and marble that, with its high glass ceiling, felt more like an airport terminal than a medical institution. And although many were confused by this strange, bedraggled man in half-dressed clothes, his shirt undone and his tie hanging loosely around his neck, eventually he was pointed down a corridor and towards some elevators, informed that here, the Intensive Care Unit was the Adult Critical Care Unit, and was on the fourth floor of the South Tower, which involved Declan crossing the Stepney Road and heading for a place known as Lift Core 5, whatever that meant.
Eventually finding it and taking the time to reassess himself while waiting for the elevator to reach the fourth floor, Declan tried his best to smooth down his ruffled brown hair while straightening his tie. But, as the doors opened, he put his sartorial needs aside and exited the elevator. Finding himself in a shared waiting area, he followed through a door to the right that led into a bridge corridor, the windows that showed the outside world ignored by Declan as he continued at speed through a set of double doors, now in a corridor with two options; one was to Ward 4E on the right, and on the opposite side, around a corner to the left was Ward 4F. Both were apparently ACCU wards. Luckily, there was a police officer, a young man no more than twenty standing guard at the junction.
‘Is he in here?’ Declan asked. The officer nodded. He didn’t have to ask who Declan meant; he wasn’t the first person to come running up and ask the same question that morning. Declan showed his warrant card for identification, and was pointed to the left, and Ward 4F.
The ACCU was filled with more officers and detectives than the average crime scene. There was a small sign on the wall beside Declan stating that there were twenty-two beds in this ward; four bedded bays of four beds each, where privacy was nothing more than a screen around the bed, and six side rooms for single patients. The rooms to the sides were closed, the blinds down, but one room, a single patient room had the door open, a continual movement of officers and medical staff passing in and out. Declan took a breath in as he looked around; there was a sickly sweet, antiseptic smell that made him shudder with suppressed memories from his childhood. He’d always hated hospitals.
Standing outside the door, looking up as Declan arrived was DS Anjli Kapoor. She was also in a suit, her short black bob pulled back, but like Declan gave the impression of someone who’d dressed in a hurry.
‘How is he?’ Declan asked as he approached. Anjli looked back into the room for a moment before looking back to him.
‘He’s in a coma,’ she replied. ‘Bugger’s lucky to be alive.’
‘Do we know what happened?’ Declan tried to look through the door but there were too many people in his way to gain a glance at the figure in the bed. Anjli pulled out her notebook, flipping it open.
‘Doctor Marcos is going over the crime scene now, but it looks like someone or some ones came into the Crime Unit around ten pm last night. Monroe was the last person out, and it looks like that he emerged from his office to confront them, in the process being attacked.’
‘He was the target?’
‘No idea yet,’ Anjli said, looking up from the notes. ‘He had defensive wounds, but there was nothing that stated that he had been specifically hunted.’ She looked back down to the paper, mainly to hide the fact that she was close to tears.
‘Anyway, there was a fight, and he lost. Badly. Marcos said that the amount of GHB in his system would have slowed him right down; he wouldn’t have had a chance. They slammed his head through one of the glass partitions, Declan. You know when you see someone go through a windscreen? Crime scene apparently looks like that. He lost so much blood that they must have thought he was dead, and they left before security arrived.’
She looked away now, trying to gather her emotions, but the main one, anger, was there in force.
‘We took down two of the biggest gang leaders in the UK yesterday,’ she said. ‘We bloodied The Twins noses too. And eight hours later Monroe’s beaten almost to death. It can’t be a coincidence.’
‘Why was he still there?’ Declan was angry too, angry that he hadn’t stayed to ensure that Monroe was alright, angry that he’d left to meet up with what had turned into a one-night stand. Anjli shrugged.
‘Probably didn’t want to go right home,’ she said. ‘I mean, when you’re drugged and almost killed, you probably don’t want to be in a place where it can weigh on you.’
‘I need to see him,’ Declan went to enter the room, but Anjli raised a hand to stop him.
‘There’s a Guv here that wants to see you first,’ she said. ‘Wanted to speak to the most superior officer on the team—‘ she frowned as a thought suddenly struck her.
‘How did you get here so fast?’ she interrupted herself. ‘There’s no way you made it here from Hurley in half an hour.’
‘I was in the apartment in Tottenham,’ Declan lied quickly. ‘I give the keys back soon, so needed to check it out. Dozed off there.’
‘That explains yesterday’s clothes, then.’ Anjli seemed content with this explanation and pointed over to a man in the middle of the ACCU corridor, currently talking to two assistants. He was tall, with short grey hair, whiter on the temples and under thin, black-rimmed glasses. Jacket-less, he wore the white shirt and black tie of a police officer, but the diamonds on his black epaulettes gave him the rank of Chief Superintendent. Looking up, he noticed Declan’s gaze and waved him over.
‘You DI Walsh?’ he asked. Declan nodded.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m Bradbury,’ the officer continued, and Declan didn’t need to ask anything more. Ch Supt David Bradbury controlled the City of London’s police force. Effectively, he was Declan’s boss’s boss’s boss. ‘Terrible situation we have here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Declan replied. ‘And we’re ready to start on the case. Our Divisional Surgeon is already examining the crime scene, and we believe that—‘
‘Don’t film flam me, Walsh,’ Bradbury replied. ‘You just got here. You don’t know what your team believes.’
‘With respect sir, I know the team, and I trust their opinions,’ Declan stated. ‘We’ve solved crimes with less than we have right now.’
‘But that’s the problem,’ Bradbury said, leading Declan to the side, away from the other officers. ‘You don’t yet know what you have here. I’m guessing you believe that it’s connected to the gangs you put away yesterday?’
‘That’s a possibility, sir.’ Declan was wondering what kind of conversation this really was. ‘Unless you know of another?’
‘I do, actually,’ Bradbury nodded. ‘How well do you know a reporter named Kendis Taylor?’
Declan paused for a moment, blindsided by the question. ‘I, that is we, Monroe and I know her,’ he replied. ‘She grew up in my village.’
‘You can vouch for her character then?’ Bradbury enquired. Declan wanted to scream, to shout that of course he did, he loved her, but he stopped himself.
‘I would prefer to answer that when I know what else you have here, sir.’
Bradbury nodded. ‘Monroe was apparently working on a document when he was disturbed,’ he explained. ‘One that stated that there is a strong possibility that an extreme terrorist faction radicalised Kendis Taylor, while in Syria for The Guardian newspaper.’
Declan wanted to laugh at this, but the dead pan manner in which Ch Supt Bradbury had explained it stopped him. This was real. They genuinely believed that Kendis could have attacked Monroe.
Did she take Declan home with her to provide an alibi? Was this the reason she’d insisted so heavily on that pub?
No, he had to stop himself believing that this could even be remotely true.
‘Where did the report come from, sir?’ he asked, keeping his face void of emotion. Bradbury shrugged.
‘Your lad, the pretty one in the posh suit is looking into that,’ he replied. ‘But here’s the problem, Walsh. And I know that you’ve already worked it out.’
‘I’m not the right person to lead the team with Monroe out of action,’ Declan whispered. ‘First, I’m a Detective Inspector, while you need a higher rank. Second, I have a personal connection to one suspect. And third—‘
‘Third, your whole department is made up of cast offs and screw-ups,’ Bradbury stated. ‘Without Monroe to vouch for you, there’s a chance that Temple Inn, regardless of the outstanding work you’ve done so far, will be closed and the officers reassigned.’
