Hunter Hunted

by Jack Gatland

  ‘I’m genuinely sorry about Miss Taylor,’ he continued. ‘She was a pain in my arse, but politicians need people like her.’

  Declan nodded silently, turning to the door.

  ‘DI Walsh?’ Charles said, stopping him. ‘We had a deal. You had my help here, and in return…’

  ‘The combination, sure.’ Declan looked back to Charles Baker now. ‘Enough people have died because of Rattlestone,’ he said. ‘I expect you to do the right thing.’

  ‘My wife died because of it,’ Charles mused. ‘I never want to hear the bloody word again. So, what was it?’

  ‘Two words, eleven letters, a name you’ll always remember,’ Declan said as he wrote the password onto a piece of paper, passing it to Charles and, without another word, he turned and left the office.

  Charles Baker picked up the piece of paper, reading it.

  And then he laughed.

  ‘Oh, you arrogant bastard,’ he said as he sat down at the desk and made calls.

  Epilogue

  The fallout from this, as expected, was immense. With the information gained from both the phones of DCI Sutcliffe and DI Frost, and the additional evidence gained from the investigation by the Temple Inn Crime Unit, there was more than enough evidence to destroy the career of Malcolm Gladwell, let alone charge him for the murders of Kendis Taylor, Laurie Hooper and by association, Will Harrison. There was a faint chance that he could have been charged with the murder of Donna Baker, but Charles Baker had spoken against that, claiming that his family just wanted closure. He had however sent the police to Gladwell’s family mausoleum in Brompton Cemetery where, in an antique safe opened by a combination password was a single folder, one on the 2015 Balkans debacle, which laid the blame for the leaking of the itinerary directly at Malcolm Gladwell’s feet, giving four more deaths, British soldiers, that he could be charged with.

  There was no briefcase in there.

  Charles Baker was as good as his word, and by the end of the day had launched an investigation into Rattlestone’s practices, in the process effectively closing it down. There was no mention of the five million that he’d made in the other shell companies, or what files he’d recently gained that would assist him in other ways.

  As for the detectives of The Last Chance Saloon, the fallout was heavier. DS Anjli Kapoor and DCs Billy Fitzwarren and Joanna Davey had been spared from the brunt of it, having all performed their duties under exceptional circumstances, but that DCI Monroe and Divisional Surgeon Doctor Rosanna Marcos had deliberately gone to a known crime lord for help had not sat well with the higher command, who felt that the team needed more than a DCI, a rogue DCI at that, looking after them and while Monroe was given administrational sick leave to recover from his injuries, they promised to completely audit the department, something that worried everyone involved. Even DCI Bullman, the first to be pulled in and questioned, didn’t comment to anyone what had happened in the meeting.

  DI Declan Walsh had also been targeted; it was pointed out that his reckless antics over several cases had been part of the cause of these situations, and that he hadn’t revealed his relationship with Kendis Taylor while actively investigating her was a major strike against him. That said, that he had been framed for domestic terrorism and had not only proved his innocence but solved the case while uncovering a parliamentary conspiracy was a tick in his favour, as were the glowing recommendations he received, to his surprise, from both Charles Baker, MP and Chief Superintendent Bradbury. But no matter what happened, the fact of the matter was that Declan and his team had, again, embarrassed the Government. Declan knew that there would need to be a scapegoat. And, as they placed him on administrative sick leave to heal his shoulder wound, he wondered if he’d ever be allowed to return to duty again.

  That he’d lost Kendis too almost broke him.

  And the fallout didn’t stop there; Declan had learned that during this, Jessica had been cyberbullied; taunted and painted online as the daughter of a terrorist, and when he’d called, Liz had explained that now wasn’t the best time to speak to her, and that he should give her a few days.

  Declan had met with Monroe a couple of days after that; he’d gone to ensure that the old man was still fighting fit, visiting him in the hospital ward that Monroe had been seconded to under threat of death by Doctor Marcos until he was officially well enough to return to duty.

  ‘She’ll forgive you,’ Monroe had said. Declan nodded, not really believing that.

  ‘Have they said when you can get out of here, Guv?’

  ‘Couple of days, no longer,’ Monroe leaned his head back against the pillows. ‘When you spoke to Trix, did she say anything about the night?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did she see what I was working on?’

  Declan understood, now. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘She was uploading, so didn’t see the screen. Why?’

  Monroe closed his eyes as he spoke. ‘I was writing my resignation letter,’ he explained.

  There was a moment of silence as Declan took this in. ‘You’re quitting?’ he eventually asked. Monroe however shook his head.

  ‘It was right after Birmingham,’ he explained. ‘I felt that for most of my life I’ve skirted the edge of the line. Hell, half of my life is on a bloody wall in your house. And, after the case, my capture and all that, I worried that I’d lost my edge.’

  ‘And now?’ Declan leaned forwards on his chair.

  ‘But now, having literally fought for my life, I’m seeing things differently,’ Monroe opened his eyes again, looking directly at Declan. ‘But it might be too late. There’s a strong chance I’ll be pensioned off, and the doors of the Last Chance Saloon will close forever, laddie.’

  ‘They can’t pension you off,’ Declan forced a smile. ‘They’ll have me to deal with.’

  Monroe smiled, thanked Declan for his friendship and closed his eyes. And Declan had returned to Hurley to recover, aware that every face that looked at him wondered whether the rumours were true; whether he was indeed some kind of sleeper terrorist, a danger to be watched or even stopped. And the house that had for the last couple of months felt like home, no longer did so.

  It was a week after the arrest of Malcolm Gladwell that Kendis Taylor was buried.

  Even though she’d spent more than half of her life away from the sleepy village, she’d asked in her will to be buried back in Hurley, in the family plot. And so her husband Peter had agreed, holding the ceremony in the graveyard of St Mary The Virgin, the same churchyard that, a couple of months earlier, they had buried Patrick Walsh in.

  Declan didn’t attend; instead at a distance he stood by some trees, watching the service from afar. It was a minor affair, kept short, and Declan wiped a tear from his eye as he watched the coffin lowered into the ground. And with that he’d turned away, now walking over to Patrick Walsh’s grave, staring down at it. The ground had settled. It didn’t look or feel so out-of-place now.

  Now it was Kendis’ grave’s turn to look like that.

  Too many good people are dying, he thought to himself. Maybe being kicked out of the force is the best thing here.

  There was a rustle of leaves behind him as someone approached, and Declan turned to see Peter walking over to him.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss—‘ Declan began, but didn’t finish as Peter bunched his fist and, with a heavy right-handed swing, connected hard on Declan’s chin, sending him tumbling to the floor.

  ‘Get up, you bastard,’ Peter hissed. Declan lay on the ground, sprawled across his father’s grave.

  ‘Do what you want,’ he replied, shutting his eyes. ‘I deserve it.’

  Peter leaned over Declan, his face crunched up with anger, his eyes reddened with crying.

  ‘You were just a shag,’ he hissed. ‘Nothing more than a one-night stand. She loved me, Walsh. Me.’

  He stood up, looking back to the service.

  ‘Pay your respects to my wife,’ he said. ‘It’s the only time you’re allowed to. I
know people in this village, and they bloody hate you. They tell me everything, and if I hear you’ve visited her grave at all after that? I’ll kill you.’

  Peter spat onto Declan, kicking him in the side one more time for good measure and then, turning around, he walked away from Declan without a backward glance.

  Declan painfully climbed to his feet, noting that the exchange had been seen across the graveyard by two of the older residents of Hurley.

  Bloody wonderful. As if I hadn’t fuelled enough gossip.

  Dusting himself down and rubbing at his bruised chin, Declan slowly walked to the now empty graveside, staring down at the coffin that held Kendis Taylor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could manage in a choked voice, forcing the returning tears back as he spoke. After a couple of moments of silent farewells, he eventually turned and walked out of the churchyard, away from Kendis and his father and back towards his house.

  In the church car park there was a woman standing by a nondescript grey van, watching him quietly. In a long grey hoodie and a pair of jeans, she made no movement, no signal of communication, but had positioned herself so that he’d notice her. Recognising her, Declan turned, now walking towards the van.

  ‘Trix,’ he said as he stopped in front of the younger woman. ‘Third time in Hurley in a month? You’ll be renting a place next.’

  ‘I’m sorry for this, Declan,’ Trix replied. ‘For your loss and all that. But also for being here.’ She looked to the front of the van, as if looking to see if anyone on the High Street was watching; as usual for a sleepy village, they were alone. ‘I’ve been trying to sort your Wintergreen problem out.’

  ‘You have?’ Declan was surprised at this, and went to speak, but Trix looked back to him, raising a hand.

  ‘You’ve pissed a lot of people off in Whitehall, Declan. There’s a ton of people want you in a box for what you did to Rattlestone, including the bigwigs who control my department. It’s really hard to get your name in through any front doors, you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ Declan stared at the young woman, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what I said,’ Trix looked away again, as if ashamed. ‘I’m sorry for this. But orders are orders.’

  Declan went to ask what she meant, to ask why she was being so cryptic, but as he did so he heard the scuff of a boot behind him and, before he could turn around to see who it was, a small black hood was thrown over his head, muffling him as his arms were grabbed from behind. Something was firmly placed over his nose and mouth; a damp cloth, stopping him from shouting as he struggled, a sickly sweet smell coming from it and through the hood that, as he was forced to breathe it in made his limbs feel heavier, slumping as the unconsciousness of sleep took him.

  Looking around, Trix opened the side of the van as a man, dark-haired and in his late thirties bundled the unconscious Declan into the back of it, slamming the door shut and checking around one more time to see if this had been observed as he climbed into the driver’s seat, nodding silently to Trix as they drove off, south down the High Street, and out of Hurley…

  Before LETTER FROM THE DEAD…

  Before MURDER OF ANGELS…

  Before HUNTER HUNTED…

  There was

  Learn the story of what really happened to DI Declan Walsh, while at Mile End!

  * * *

  An EXCLUSIVE PREQUEL, completely free to anyone who joins the Declan Walsh Reader’s Club!

  * * *

  Join Here!

  DI Walsh and the team of the Last Chance

  Saloon will return in their next thriller

  * * *

  Pre-order now

  * * *

  And read on for a sneak preview…

  Prologue

  Craig Randall led a double life.

  That’s what he told everyone that he spoke to; it made him sound like a secret agent, some kind of exciting, enigmatic hero rather than what he really was; a fifteen-year-old bully with a Walter Mitty fantasy.

  Craig’s double life wasn’t fake though; it just wasn’t what you’d expect to see when asking someone about it. During the week, Craig was just a Year 10 loser, picked upon by the bigger, stupider kids in his year because he wasn’t a fan of the same football teams, a teenager who spent a lot of time on his own, and who didn’t have that many friends. He wasn’t that academic; he wasn’t that sporty. In fact, he wasn’t that… anything. If you looked up the words academically average in a school guidebook, you’d probably find a photo of Craig Randall smiling out at you. Or, at least scowling, annoyed that he was being made fun of again.

  But on the weekends, oh yes, the weekends he was a God.

  For Craig Randall spent his weekends somewhere else. Not in South East London like the other losers in his class, no; Craig and his family would spend every weekend from Easter until October at a camping and caravan park in Hurley Upon Thames.

  It’d started when he was eight. His parents, sick of the street that they lived in and desperate to escape from the city, if only for a day or so borrowed a frame tent from a friend, and, with a minimum of camping equipment and experience had muddled their way to Hurley after seeing it mentioned in the back of Camping and Caravanning magazine. They’d arrived late on a Friday evening in May and, as Craig and his dad wrestled with the tent, realising very early in the process that they didn’t have a manual explaining which pole went where, Craig’s mum and his sister Ellie went to visit the camp shop and picked up some fish and chips from a van that had arrived just outside it. They’d been cramped back then; eight-year-old Craig and six-year-old Ellie had to share one of the two ‘bedrooms’, nothing more than a cloth divider between their manky sleeping bags on cheap air beds, and their parents’ double air bed, with equally battered sleeping bags.

  They’d had a BBQ on the Saturday and cooked from a single camp stove the other days. They’d played football. Although they had a small TV to watch things on, they didn’t really bother. There was a small boat ramp that led into the Thames, which you could get to by following a path from the first field, or by making your way on a rickety, home made bridge created from wooden pallets across a stream beside the third, furthest away field, and then following the Thames back to it.

  He played there a lot. And he built the bridge, too.

  It had been a break in every sense of the word; a break from the artificial normality of the world, and a return to an easier time. From that day onwards, the Randalls were born again weekend campers, updating their equipment piece by piece while travelling down every Friday evening, often from the moment Craig returned home from school, and returning mid afternoon on the Sunday, just in time for him to prepare for school the following day.

  They weren’t the only people who did this and over the weeks, the months that they lived this double life, Craig had recognised other people, other families, other children who also travelled to Hurley on the weekends. And, they met new families who were just starting the journeys.

  Families and children who didn’t know Craig, and had no context of what he was truly like. And thus the second Craig Randall was born.

  This Craig was a cool one. He was captain of his school’s football team, had a girlfriend who was super hot and two years older than him, and he was doing these new visiting children a favour by hanging out with them. He was the experienced one, the veteran of the campsite; he knew the coolest places to play in the woods that surrounded the campsite, the best places to swim, and he always had a story of something amazing that’d happened in the past, which was always a story that made him look as equally brilliant. In fact, as the years went on and Craig reached his teenage years, he’d spend the weeks waiting for the weekends, when he could go back to Hurley and gain adoration from the smaller kids there, annoyed when the camping season ended in October and he had to wait almost half the year to return. He didn’t explain what he did while camping to his weekday friends. They weren’t that important to him. They didn’t see him in
the same way.

  They’d gotten a spaniel named Scamper, named after some book dog his dad had loved as a kid, a couple of years into this. Craig wasn’t a fan of the dog, mainly because he ended up as the de facto dog walker, but that said, it seemed to attract girls to him, all wanting to stroke the dog; and Craig had then reached an age then when girls were very interesting.

  And then it’d all gone wrong. His parents now had a caravan, and although Ellie still slept with them inside it, they allowed Craig his own four-person tent, which he’d had to save up for. It was like having his own place; he had a double mattress inside it, even if his sleeping bag fitted one person, and a small radio that played CDs. But for the fifteen-year-old Craig, this was a bachelor pad. He was finally becoming a man. And his attitude to the other kids on the site changed. He wasn’t bothered about playing in the woods like he was five years earlier. He wanted to kiss girls and look cool. He’d just finished his Year 10 mock GCSE exams. You were effectively a grown up when you did that.

  He bullied the smaller kids in the campsite, mainly because he could. That, and it was a form of revenge for the bullies who still attacked him at his own school. He’d also realised that he was no longer the ‘veteran’ who could show the coolest places to people; that was now a position given to his sister, or even other younger children who, arriving years after he had now claimed the role, looking at him as some kind of weird hanger on.