Hunter Hunted

by Jack Gatland

  ‘DS Kapoor,’ he smiled, offering his hand to shake. ‘And you are…’

  ‘DCI Bullman,’ she replied as she also shook Farringdon’s hand. He indicated for them to sit, and they did so.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked, waving to a server.

  ‘Water, please,’ Anjli replied to the server who, looking to Bullman, noted her nod in agreement, before leaving.

  ‘I’ve seen your man Walsh is on the TV,’ Farringdon leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘I’m guessing this is about him?’

  ‘In a way,’ Anjli admitted. ‘It’s also about the death of Kendis Taylor.’

  ‘I saw that too,’ Farringdon replied, picking up and taking a sip of his own drink. ‘Met her a couple of times when I was in Westminster. Never pegged her for a terrorist. I’m guessing she wasn’t?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to work out,’ Bullman replied cautiously. ‘As you can imagine, there are many people out there who want to push that narrative.’

  Farringdon nodded at this. ‘And therefore you’re here.’

  ‘You worked in Westminster for decades,’ Anjli leaned closer to meet Farringdon now. ‘Your memory is incredible. I was hoping you could answer some questions about the Star Chamber.’

  That was not the question that Anthony Farringdon was expecting. He thought for a moment and then leaned back.

  ‘Charles Baker,’ he mused. ‘You’re looking at him as a suspect?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Bullman asked. Farringdon shifted in his seat as he counted off on his fingers.

  ‘Current Chamber is Malcolm Gladwell, Conservative, Tamara Banks, also Conservative, Jerry Robinson, a known Ulster Democrat, Labour’s Norman Shipman and Baker. I know that because when he was selected last year, the Lib Dems threw a fit about how it was overweighted on the right wing while they didn’t have a say. That said, it was more a whine about the lack of seats they now had, as the spot he took was because of one of their golden boy MPs losing theirs.’

  ‘I thought it wasn’t about politics,’ Anjli said. Farringdon smiled.

  ‘It’s not supposed to be, but everything is,’ he said. ‘They’re like a secret Privy Council. They work in the shadows and they have complete deniability. In the eighties they were a bit of a black bag organisation and removed more dissidents to Thatcher than MI5 did. Recently they’ve been more linked to disinformation on campaigns like Remain, Me Too, Black Lives Matter, that sort of thing, mainly as with the UDP and Tories holding four of the five seats, they have a bit of a monopoly.’

  ‘How does it work?’ Bullman was writing in her notebook. ‘Is it just them?’

  ‘Christ no, that’d be chaos,’ Farringdon admitted. ‘They have aides and teams that provide them with what they need, and then they decide based on the evidence. Once done, they pass it down the wire. Usually to the Security Service.’

  ‘What if it directly contradicts a Government policy?’

  ‘Then they use non-Governmental contractors,’ Farringdon sipped at his drink again, glancing around the room. ‘To be honest, everyone’s a little concerned about it right now. Tamara joined three months back, Baker last year. That means that for the next four years they’ve got a voice. Robinson has another year or so and Shipman is in his last five months; the moment he goes, Gladwell takes over as longest server and Chairperson. They’ll be unstoppable, no matter who replaces him.’

  Anjli looked to Bullman at this, but the older DCI was emotionless.

  ‘Why would they decide to discredit Kendis?’ she said. Farringdon shrugged.

  ‘She’s not the first one they’d done this to,’ he replied. ‘There’s been a lot of journos over the years that have been discredited because of these buggers.’

  ‘Would they have killed her?’ Bullman finally looked up from the notebook. Farringdon shook his head.

  ‘They might be more right wing than usual, but none of them have the spine for murder,’ he considered. ‘They’d try everything before something like that happened. And I can’t see Baker deliberately pushing to remove your man Declan right now unless he’d been given something explosive.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s too closely linked to him. The Devington fallout hasn’t reached the courts yet. I saw Taylor’s piece in The Guardian, talking about Andy Mac, so discrediting her is a good idea, but that’s not the same.’

  ‘Hypothetically, how would you have done it?’ Bullman asked. Farringdon laughed.

  ‘I’d fake a terrorist folder on her and leak it,’ he said. ‘Pretty much what they did.’

  ‘And the attack on Monroe? Could that have been them?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Farringdon waved to a server for the bill. ‘But not impossible.’

  ‘Are Rattlestone connected to the Star Chamber?’ Anjli enquired. Farringdon lowered his voice again.

  ‘They’re connected to everything,’ he whispered. ‘And I seriously suggest you steer the widest berth that you can there.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I really need to move soon. I have a dinner appointment.’

  Anjli and Bullman rose. ‘Thank you for your time,’ Bullman said as she once more shook Farringdon’s hand.

  ‘If it means anything, I don’t think your man’s a terrorist,’ Farringdon finished as he shook Anjli’s hand. ‘I saw him when he came here. He’s a zealot.’

  ‘Zealot?’ Bullman paused. ‘As in a fanatic?’

  Farringdon nodded. ‘But not in the way you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘He’s fanatical about the law. Of justice. You could see it when he spoke, just like his father did. He sees a crime and he’ll do whatever it takes to solve it. Someone like that, he’s a straight arrow.’

  He paused.

  ‘One last thing,’ he added. ‘Charles Baker. He might be a bugger, but he’s not one of the worst ones. Check his voting record; he’s quite centrist for the Tories. But he’s not leader material.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Bullman asked.

  ‘He has a nickname amongst the Westminster staff,’ Farringdon explained. ‘King John. People think it’s because they’re likening him to a ruler, even a rather bad one like John, but it isn’t. You ever see Robin Hood? The Disney one with the foxes?’

  Anjli and Bullman both nodded, so Farringdon continued.

  ‘In that film, King John is a Lion, but he’s useless. Completely enthralled to his adviser, Sir Hiss.’

  ‘You’re saying Baker has this nickname because of his adviser?’

  Farringdon shrugged. ‘Let’s just say Will Harrison has many of the properties of a sneaky over-controlling snake and leave it at that. And to be honest, considering the little shit’s pedigree, I’m surprised he’s not an MP himself.’

  And with the conversation ended, and more to consider, Anjli and Bullman left Anthony Farringdon to his dinner date.

  Walking back onto the street, Bullman looked to Anjli.

  ‘Well, as we seem to move to your agenda, what do you want to do now?’

  Anjli watched the traffic drive past, as she decided on which path to take. ‘You might not like it,’ she said.

  ‘And that’s supposed to entice me?’ Bullman smiled.

  ‘Baker’s wife committed suicide a few weeks back,’ Anjli explained. ‘They classed it as suicide, but now I’m starting to wonder.’

  ‘Who ran the case?’ Bullman was already looking for a taxi. Anjli shrugged.

  ‘Let’s go find out,’ she said.

  Declan had changed back into a suit; whereas he’d worn a grey one earlier that day, now left on a train heading somewhere north, tonight he wore a navy blue pinstripe one with a white shirt and dark grey tie. He didn’t want to stand out, but he wanted to not look like someone who was deliberately hiding. His plan was to hide in plain sight, and to use Frost’s warrant card to somehow carry on the investigation.

  But now he sat upstairs in a dark room, staring out across his front lawn, out at the street and the lone police car that had been watching hi
s house for the last hour. He’d worked out that they changed cars every couple of hours, although this seemed more to keep the eyes fresh than to stick to a routine. And, once the new team took over, one officer would leave the vehicle and patrol around the block, starting down the footpath between Declan’s house and his neighbour, one that went past his house and the one that backed onto it, following around the block and returning around six minutes later. They would re-enter the vehicle and then that was that, for about twenty minutes before the other officer went for the same stroll. Where they were parked gave them an unobstructed view down the footpath, meaning that any attempt to leave the house would be seen unless he clambered over the back fence or the left-hand side one; he knew next door had wireless CCTV covering their garden too, and the chances that this was now being broadcast into the officer’s car were incredibly high. It was definitely the first thing that Declan would have done, after all.

  He was trapped.

  He’d been watching now for most of the evening; it was getting late, time to possibly consider sleeping. However, as much as he knew that while they were outside he was safe inside, he didn’t know how long this status quo would continue. They could re-enter at any time, or Frost or even Sutcliffe could return and if he was asleep, he’d be caught. Even if he was in the hidden study, there was a chance that Anjli could give him away, or even his daughter could accidentally mention it if they found and questioned her. No, he needed to make some kind of move tonight.

  His burner phone beeped; looking at it, he saw an address in Woking had been sent to him. No message, just the details. He smiled. Trix had come through for a change. Now he just had to get there, and at the same time get in.

  Gathering the small urban backpack once more, Declan filled it with things that he might need; he knew that at any second he would be forced to run, so he wore comfortable shoes in case he needed to sprint anywhere, and placed a change of clothes in the bag. In addition, he took the money from the fake book, the warrant card and the fake glasses. He didn’t know what to do with his hair; a cap wouldn’t work with the suit, so he gelled it back into a slicked back look with a different side parting, trying to match the image of Frost, hoping that with the glasses, it would suitably alter his face.

  He was filling a small aluminium water bottle when his house phone rang, almost causing him to jump out of his skin. He stopped, tiptoeing into the living room. Through the window he could see the officers exiting the police vehicle; they had obviously also heard the faint noise of the phone ringing too and wanted to see if they could hear anything when the message was left. Declan moved to the kitchen door, standing in the dark, listening as the phone went to answerphone.

  It was Doctor Marcos.

  ‘Declan,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘I’m calling all known numbers and hoping this gets to you. Royal Bastard. Gallifrey. Dentist.’ The connection clicked silent, and the answerphone light flashed. Staying in the kitchen, Declan thought over the cryptic message. He knew exactly what it meant, but he hoped that anyone else that heard it would be completely baffled.

  What it meant was hope.

  What it meant was that Monroe was still alive.

  Declan looked at his watch. It was past nine in the evening; he needed to move. He needed to get to Woking, which was a good twenty to thirty miles away and close to an hour by back roads. And to do this, he needed a car.

  Luckily, he knew where he could find one.

  Watching the police vehicle outside, he waited until the next walk around ended before slipping into the back garden. The last thing he wanted was to have the officer accidentally overhear him as he escaped. This done, Declan made his way quietly to the back wall, using a compost bin placed against it to help him over, dropping quietly into the back garden of his backing neighbour, Karl Schnitter. A mechanic by trade, there was every chance that Karl could find a vehicle that Declan could borrow, if he even believed him.

  As it was, Karl was in the kitchen, waiting for Declan as he walked towards the house.

  ‘Get in before they see you,’ he whispered, letting Declan pass him. ‘I saw you enter the house earlier from my bedroom, and when you weren’t brought out in handcuffs, I knew you were still in there.’

  ‘I’m not a terrorist,’ Declan said, sitting at the table. Karl shrugged.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘And your friend, the one that was pretty? I believe that she was not one either, but she was killed for something. Do you know who killed her?’

  ‘I’m getting close.’

  ‘Good,’ Karl rose from his own chair, walking to the fridge. A tall, tanned, robust German in his mid-sixties, Karl had been possibly the most laid back and calm member of the village as long as Declan could remember. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I need to get to Woking,’ Declan explained. ‘There’s someone there that might help.’

  ‘You need a car,’ Karl turned back, passing Declan a can of some energy drink. ‘Here, you need to stay awake. I will also make coffee.’ He walked to the kettle, turning it on.

  ‘I can find you a car,’ he said. ‘I have a couple of courtesy ones that people who leave their cars with me for long periods of time use.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Declan replied. Karl held up a hand.

  ‘But,’ he said, his tone becoming more sober. ‘In return, you must do me something. That Helen Mirren woman?’

  Declan nodded. He knew Karl had seen a woman who resembled the actress Helen Mirren visit Patrick Walsh frequently. Declan didn’t know who this was, but believed that this could be the mysterious Wintergreen, who had once worked with Patrick Walsh and Alexander Monroe as a Detective Sergeant back in the nineties; someone who now had become a ghost.

  ‘As soon as I find her, I’ll inform her of your intentions to court her,’ he smiled, trying to be as formal as Karl was. The German nodded at this, tossing Declan a set of keys.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Peugeot 308, outside the garage. Half a tank. I expect it back in the same condition.’

  Declan took the keys, and the offered coffee, taking a sip. Even though this had been a brief conversation, this was the first normal one he’d had all day. He was almost loath to leave it.

  Almost.

  22

  Cold Cases

  The press conference had ended by the time that Anjli and Bullman returned to Temple Inn; Bradbury had already left with his entourage behind him, and only Frost, Billy and Sutcliffe remained. Even DC Davey wasn’t to be found on the lower levels, a note stating that she’d gone to another forensics laboratory to chase up some supplies.

  Entering the upper floor of the offices, Anjli hadn’t even made it to her desk before Sutcliffe leaned out of his—no, Monroe’s office.

  ‘And where the hell have you been?’ he snapped. ‘We were supposed to have all officers here for the conference.’

  ‘I’m not working your terrorist case, remember?’ Anjli replied before reluctantly adding, ‘sir.’

  ‘You’re working the Monroe attack though, right?’ Frost lounged on one chair, his left arm resting lazily on the desk as he turned to face her. ‘Declan Walsh attacked him. So yeah, you’re working the terrorist case.’

  ‘No proof as yet on that,’ Anjli gave a smile to Frost. ‘But when we find out who really did it, we’ll let you know.’

  ‘And let us know if you find Monroe,’ Sutcliffe muttered, returning into the office as he spoke. ‘Bugger going off the grid like that just screams suspicion.’

  ‘I’m just here to print out a form and then we’re off again,’ Anjli explained, walking over to the printer and collecting some pages that were spitting out into the document feeder. ‘Collating witness statements, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Which witnesses?’ Billy asked as he looked up from his workstation. Anjli ignored him, gathering the sheets and then walking over to Bullman.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready?’ she said, ignoring both Billy and Frost, but feeling their eyes boring into her
back. ‘There’s a bit too much Judas in this office for my liking.’ She glanced back at the printer, as if concerned that she’d missed a page. Billy seemed to flinch a little at the insult, but kept quiet as Anjli and Bullman, without saying another word, left the offices once more.

  The moment they were gone, however, Billy rose from his chair and walked over to the printer.

  ‘Does it bother you?’ Frost asked. ‘The Judas thing?’

  ‘Not really,’ Billy replied as he clicked his way through the menu on the printer’s screen. ‘In fact, every time she says it now, I see it as a kind of call to action, you know?’

  The printer spat out pages, and Billy picked up the first one, reading it.

  ‘The thing about Anjli Kapoor is that she’s a bit of a Luddite,’ he explained. ‘She doesn’t understand that actions have consequences. For example, when you print across the network, the printer keeps the last file in memory.’

  ‘So you see what she’s printed?’ Frost waved for Billy to bring it over. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I dunno, sir,’ Billy admitted. ‘I mean, how do the police notes for Donna Baker’s death help the Monroe investigation?’

  Frost read through the first page as Billy passed him the rest of the printouts; it was indeed the case files for the investigation of Donna Baker’s suicide.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he said, looking at the door where moments earlier Anjli and Bullman had left with copies. ‘Excellent work. We can nip this in the bud before it goes too far.’