by Jack Gatland
‘I don’t,’ Kendis Taylor replied, pulling out her voice recorder. ‘But I’m visiting mum. It’s the Olympic opening ceremony tonight and my cousin’s in it. Saw the blues and twos as I was driving to the house.’
Freeman wanted nothing more than to escape. ‘You needn’t turn that on. There’s no story here.’
‘You sure?’
Without answering, Freeman walked away from the annoying reporter, showing his ID to the nearest officer and passing under the incident tape, entering the woodland clearing. Here he found more officers, mainly forensics, working the case while other officers kept the public out of sight. Recognising one officer through the white PPE suit she wore, he waved to gain her attention. Regan was a solid SOCO, and he didn’t want to piss her off if he could help it, so he kept as far away as he could.
‘What’ve we got?’ he asked. Regan walked over to him, glancing back as she did. On the floor, lying on his back, his arms outstretched and his throat slashed, was a teenage boy.
‘Craig Randall, fifteen years old, throat slashed from right to left,’ she said, making the motion with her hand. ‘Went out with the dog two hours back. Dog arrived back in the campsite about an hour ago. Family went looking for him, couldn’t find him, tried calling his phone, no answer. Eventually that caravan there heard the ringing and entered the woods, thinking someone had lost a phone. Instead, they found this.’
‘Nice,’ Freeman stared at the body. ‘Cause of death?’
‘We think it’s some sort of razor,’
‘Think?’ Freeman looked back to Regan. ‘No weapon found?’
‘None yet,’ Regan admitted. ‘But then he could have slashed his throat and then thrown it into the bushes or even the stream.’
‘You think this was self inflicted?’ This surprised Freeman. Regan waved for him to follow, moving a little closer to the body, but not close enough to contaminate the scene.
‘See there? The cut is from right to left,’ she explained. ‘It’s jagged, so it wasn’t committed; almost like he started, stopped and then continued through.’ She pointed to the left hand, currently against the ground. ‘Blood started spurting out on the right-hand side, then spurts to the left as he continues to cut, where it splatters all over his fist and arm. But his palm is absent of any sign of it.’
‘Because he was gripping the blade,’ Freeman nodded. ‘Any reason he’d do this?’
‘Apart from the fact that he’s apparently a little shit with a bit of a rep for being a bully?’ Regan shrugged. ‘Better ask the parents.’
‘No note?’
Regan pointed to a tree where, on the bark, was etched one word.
SORRY
‘That do for you?’ she asked.
DI Freeman sighed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Actually, yes,’ Regan waved to an assistant who passed over a clear plastic bag. In it was a piece of card the size of a business card, blank except for one image; a little red man with what looked like a hat on, arms out to the side, and holding a scythe. ‘We think this is some kind of collectable—‘
‘It’s murder,’ Freeman said, his face draining of all colour. ‘This wasn’t suicide. I need to call Walsh.’
‘Walsh? Why does he need to get involved?’ Regan was irritated now, aware that she’d missed something, but unaware of what it was.
‘Because we’ve seen that picture before,’ Freeman replied, pulling out his phone and dialling. ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he eventually said into it. ‘Get Detective Superintendent Patrick Walsh on the line, now.’
He looked back at the body.
‘Tell him we have another Red Reaper.’
1
Kidnapped
Declan didn’t know how long he’d been in the van for. All he knew was that he’d been sedated immediately after they had thrown a bag over his head.
And that pissed him off.
The van was driving straight; he knew this because even though he was hooded, he couldn’t feel the sway of the van as it turned corners, only the occasional slight movement that was comparable with changing lanes on a motorway. Was he heading into London down the M4? It’d make sense. He went to pull at the hood, but realised that he couldn’t move his hands. Not that they were restrained, but that they simply weren’t responding.
Some sort of nerve agent.
Okay, so he was in a van, hooded and restrained. But at the same time it was one that was connected to Trix, and she’d recently helped him escape custody, so there had to be a reason for this. What it was, though, he had no idea.
Declan leaned back in the seat; to be honest, it was a comfortable seat, and there was a seatbelt on, as he could feel it pressing against him. They’d wanted him to be secure, but not uncomfortable. He concentrated on the sensations he could feel. The hood had a slight ammonia smell to it, but that could be remnants of whatever sweet smelling sedative was used on it, back in Hurley.
Hurley.
He’d been at a funeral, that much he could remember. That was to say, he wasn’t at the funeral, but watching it from afar. Kendis Taylor. A woman he’d loved for over half his life, even if a lot of that was spent doing it equally from afar. A woman who was now dead, a death that he’d avenged.
A death that he’d caused, as well. If he’d kept Kendis from the Andy Mac case at the start, she wouldn’t have continued on with it. She wouldn’t have—
No. She would have done it either way. That was what Kendis did. That’s why he had admired her so. She was always destined for this, no matter what Declan did to save her.
He’d been so angry, convinced that this was folly when he had last spoken to her. He should have stayed with her. Ensured that she didn’t go to Brompton Cemetery alone.
But he didn’t. And she did. The past was written, and he had to move on, think about the present. Which, currently, was in the back of a van with a hood on his head.
He could feel his fingers now as life crept back into his extremities. Outside the van he could hear traffic; it was busier; the van moving slower. Central London, perhaps? A swing to the right. Heading southwards now? Possibly. He thought about what he’d been wearing. What did he have on his person? He had keys, a small Leatherman utility tool that he always carried, and the tactical pen he wrote his notes with. In his inside jacket was a USB with the word WINTERGREEN written on it; ever since he’d returned to the house after Westminster, he’d kept that on him, like some kind of good luck charm.
Fat lot of good luck it’d given him so far.
There was a dip; the van was moving downwards. An underground car park, perhaps? A swing to the right, the van moving slower now confirmed this. Declan attempted moving his hand; it tingled as he tried, but it moved a little. He moved onto his arm—
The hood was pulled off, and Declan saw Trix, her face a mask of concern as she peered at him, checking his eyes as she did so.
‘You’re awake?’ she asked. ‘Good. Thought as much. Here, smell this.’ She cracked open a phial in front of him, allowing the smell to waft up Declan’s nose. It made him gag with the stench, but within a couple of seconds he found he could move his muscles again.
‘Neat trick,’ he muttered, flexing his neck, allowing the kinks to release. ‘You’d better have a damned good reason for that.’
‘She didn’t know I was going to do it,’ a male voice said as a young man, dark-haired and in his late thirties, leaned around from the driver’s seat. ‘I thought it was the best way to get this done. We couldn’t let you see where we took you, see. It’s a secret.’
‘Sorry Declan, but believe me when I say it’s for your own good,’ Trix stepped back now, out of the van, through the sliding side door and into a nondescript, half-empty underground car park. Declan didn’t follow; instead he looked back to the young man.
‘And you are?’ he asked calmly.
‘Tom Marlowe,’ the man replied. ‘And yeah, I’m not commenting on if that’s a real name or not.’
‘And you work with Trix?’
Declan continued. Marlowe shrugged.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ he replied. ‘I work with her in a specialised department. We’re actually taking you to our boss, though. She’s been wanting to chat to you for a while now.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Declan asked. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you’ve been making a bloody noise looking for her,’ Marlowe climbed out of the van, indicating for Declan to follow. ‘Her name’s Emilia Wintergreen.’
Declan hadn’t expected this. Quietly and suspiciously he clambered gingerly out of the van, the after affects of the drug still in his system, making him unsteady on his feet. He wondered if this was how Monroe had felt a week earlier when the man with the rimless glasses had attacked him, but he put that thought aside as he followed Trix and Marlowe to the car park doors.
‘So you’re a spook?’ he asked conversationally. Marlowe decided not to reply, pressing a button on the elevator and waiting beside it.
‘I’m guessing you’re a spook because of the hood and the covert shit you seem to employ here,’ Declan continued, warming to the task. ‘I mean, I know I’m in Central London, and I think we came up the M4, maybe the A40. I’m thinking down into London somewhere near Euston, so we’re maybe in Holborn or somewhere near Soho.’
‘You learn that in copper school?’ Marlowe entered the elevator as the doors opened.
‘Military Police,’ Declan replied as he followed him.
‘Look, Declan, I told you. You’re toxic right now,’ Trix explained as the doors closed. ‘You’ve pissed a ton of people off recently, and we can’t walk you in through the front door.’
‘But you won’t even tell me where the door is,’ Declan replied. Trix shrugged.
‘Until we know if you’re an asset or a threat, we’d rather play on the side of caution.’
‘So I’m a threat now?’ Declan chuckled as the elevator stopped at the third floor. ‘If I pass your tests, do I get to know where we are?’
Trix glanced at Marlowe, who stared at the doors, waiting for them to open.
‘Above my pay grade,’ he said.
‘And what is your pay grade?’ Declan asked, but the doors sliding apart interrupted him. The elevator had opened up into a corridor, and Marlowe and Trix walked Declan left, towards a pair of old looking blue double doors, each with small windows embedded in the middle. There was a faint smell of what seemed to be curry powder, which didn’t fit the location and as Declan entered through the doors behind Marlowe, he felt like he’d fallen into the eighties, with the decor of the office space that he’d now entered looking older than the offices of Temple Inn.
The office floor was open plan, with brown carpet tiles leading to grey cork walls. It was filled with rows of desks; cheap wooden ones, placed in lines of two so that each desk faced another, with the surfaces comprising cheap looking computer monitors, phones and a page of telephone numbers beside each one. It reminded Declan of a summer telemarketing job he’d had when he was sixteen, selling carpet cleaning services to people who obviously didn’t want them. Marlowe, seeing his expression, smiled.
‘All for show,’ he explained. ‘Management is up the stairs.’
‘What is this place?’
‘Whatever we need it to be.’
They continued to the end where another painted door led them to a set of stairs that continued upwards to a second, more intimidating door. This one was steel and had no window. A fingerprint scanner was to the side; Marlowe placed his own into it and, as it opened, he waved Trix and Declan through. On the other side was a security area; a metal detector and a rolling conveyor that led to an x-ray machine, just like the ones that airport security had. Marlowe meanwhile moved once more to the left, bypassing this by taking Declan through a door to the side.
Now the room was more modern; monitors on the walls and desk unit setups made this look more like mission control than a telemarketer’s office. As Declan glanced around, taking in the people at their stations, most of whom ignored him, he realised that this wasn’t a world he was used to. This wasn’t a world of justice by arrest. This was a world of justice by whatever worked.
‘In here,’ Trix said, knocking on a door. A moment later she opened it, bringing Declan into what seemed to be a windowless boardroom, sound insulation panels along two of the walls, as if to deaden the noise made in the room, ensuring it didn’t leak out to the outer offices. Declan hoped this wasn’t so that people outside didn’t hear screaming.
‘Sit, please,’ Marlowe pointed to a chair at the table as he walked to a coffee machine on a side cabinet, one of the posh ones that took small plastic pods, nestled beside one of the walls. ‘White, no sugar, right?’
Declan nodded. He didn’t need to ask how Marlowe knew this; Trix had made enough coffees while pretending to be a part of the Last Chance Saloon. Reluctantly, he sat at the table and waited.
He didn’t wait long, as a minute later a door at the other end opened and a woman entered. In her late sixties she was slim, attractive and wore her white hair short. Declan laughed. She did indeed look like Helen Mirren.
‘Something amusing?’ The woman asked, her voice showing the slightest twinge of an accent. Maybe Scouse. Maybe Geordie.
‘I was told you looked like Helen Mirren by a friend,’ he replied. ‘It amused me to see that he was right.’
‘Ah, the elusive Karl Schnitter,’ the woman said as she sat across the table from Declan, placing a folder on it beside her. ‘I assumed he’d been watching me. Old habits and all that.’
Declan didn’t ask what she meant; instead, he pulled out the USB stick with WINTERGREEN on and pushed it across the table at her.
‘Here,’ he pointed. ‘I’m guessing that’s for you.’
Emilia Wintergreen took the USB, nodding as she looked at it. ‘Did your father leave a note with it?’ she asked. Declan shook his head.
‘Didn’t even know you existed until I was researching the Angela Martin case,’ he replied. ‘Learned then about a Detective Sergeant who took money from the Lucas Brothers.’
In a similar fashion to when Declan didn’t reply to the comment about Karl, Wintergreen didn’t reply to this, instead taking the USB drive and rotating it in her hand as she examined it.
‘You’ve seen what’s on it? she asked. Declan shook his head.
‘Can’t,’ he replied. ‘Don’t know the password.’
Wintergreen frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know it either,’ she muttered, sliding it across to Trix, standing near the other door. ‘See what can be done with this.’ As Trix took the drive and left the boardroom, Wintergreen looked back at Declan.
‘You have questions, I’m sure,’ she said. Declan shrugged.
‘Not as many as you might think,’ he replied. ‘Trix alluded to me who she was working for when she came by about a week back. I’m guessing that you moved from the Met to Whitehall, from Detective Sergeant to, well, ‘M’, in the process scrubbing your past, turning you into a ghost. How am I doing?’
‘It’s Control, not M,’ Wintergreen smiled. ‘But you’re pretty close.’
Declan nodded at this. ‘Was my dad a spook?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Secret studies with bookcase doorways and cryptic USB drives are a bit of a giveaway,’ Declan replied.
Wintergreen didn’t reply for a moment, as if weighing up how much she could really say.
‘He helped us, but he wasn’t an agent, nor was he an asset,’ she simply stated. ‘To some, he was a threat, even.’
Declan looked around the windowless room. ‘And which am I?’ He asked. ‘An asset? Or a threat?’
‘That depends on you,’ Wintergreen replied. ‘If you’re an asset, we’ll discuss whatever you want, you’ll be shown where you really are, and then you’ll be taken home by Tom there. If you’re a threat, this ends now and it’ll be the hood and the van again.’
Declan leaned back in his chair, considering this. ‘If my father trusted you, then I s
uppose I should,’ he said. ‘So why don’t you tell me what this is really about.’
Wintergreen mimicked Declan, leaning back in her own chair. ‘You wanted to speak to me, remember,’ she smiled. ‘I have nothing to gain here.’
‘Yeah, not buying that,’ Declan leaned forward now, steepling his fingers together as he rested his elbows on the table in front of him. ‘You could have used Trix as a middleman and never seen my face. You could have taken your time, decided whether I was a threat before bringing me in. Instead, you kidnap and drug me, to ensure I’m here right now. So how about we cut all the spy bullshit and get to the point? If you hadn’t gathered, I’m having a pretty rotten day right now. I’ve buried a friend, had a fight with her husband, I’m likely fired from my job and I’m still seen as a terrorist by half my village, no matter what BBC News says right now. So lady, friend of my father or not, my patience is really running thin right now.’
Wintergreen went to reply, then stopped, nodding.
‘You’re in an office in Seven Dials, in London,’ she replied. ‘Just off the Donmar Warehouse theatre and down from Cambridge Circus, where the original Whitehall spies used to work. And you’re right. I brought you in for a reason.’
She paused before continuing, as if worried what the answer to her next question would bring.
‘What do you know about the Red Reaper?’
2
Cold Red Cases
Of all the things that Wintergreen could have asked, Declan hadn’t expected that question. He thought for a moment as he tried to dredge through his memories for something. He remembered snippets, partly from the television, but also through conversations later with his father.
‘Some kind of sick suicide cult,’ he replied. ‘All linked by a card with a red man, in the shape of a cross, holding a scythe. Dad ran the case about ten years back.’
‘Did he ever talk about it?’
