by L J Morris
L J Morris
Hunting Ground
(Ali Sinclair #2)
First published by Crow's Foot Books 2019
Copyright © 2019 by L J Morris
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
L J Morris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-9162498-2-0
Editing by Jo Craven
Cover art by Nick Castle
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
For Ruth, my everything; and Luke and Daniel, who make me proud every day.
There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
- Ernest Hemingway
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by L J Morris
Prologue
The stained enamel bath in the derelict apartment was full of water that had been brought up from the river. The bottom of the bath was covered in a layer of rocks, and the sediment, moss and algae that floated on the water’s surface was now mixed with blood and hair.
Justin Wyatt was strapped to a board that was balanced at the tap end. He’d lost count of the amount of times the board had been tipped up and his head had impacted on the bottom; how many times he had held his breath until his lungs were crying out for air. Breathing in water and falling into unconsciousness, only to be brought back up again.
He broke the surface, vomiting the filthy water back out of his body and gasping to breathe. His face was swollen and blood streamed from his nose. They had shouted at him time and time again, ‘Tell us what you know and we’ll let you live.’ He doubted that.
Two hours ago, he was breaking into an office with a stolen key card, looking for some information, following up a tip. He needed some sort of evidence to back up the story he’d been told. He’d been naive, though. He knew there was a risk and he was prepared for that, but he thought if he was caught, he could talk his way out of it – pretend he was a burglar. The company was respectable, at least on the surface. He assumed they would just hand him to the police.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. The story he had been told, everything he had found out was true. The conspiracy he’d uncovered was far too big to be derailed by someone like him. Now, he was sure he was going to die; his priority was to keep his mouth shut, to protect the ones he loved. He just hoped he’d left enough of a trail for them to follow, the ultimate treasure hunt. He would bring these people down, one way or another. That would be his greatest achievement, that would be his legacy.
He tipped back into the water again, his head smashed on the bottom of the bath and blood clouded in front of his eyes. He couldn’t take much more of this; surely he’d be dead soon. His vision darkened, but again he was brought back up, coughing and spluttering.
There was no questioning this time. Instead, one of his captors was on the phone. ‘Yes, sir … No, sir. We don’t think he knows anything … He would’ve told us by now … We’ll do a background check on him and find out who he is, who he lives with. If he won’t talk, maybe they will … Yes, sir. We will. It’ll look like suicide.’
Wyatt didn’t want to die but he didn’t want anyone else hurt because of him. The man put down the phone and walked into the bathroom. He looked at Wyatt then nodded to his accomplice. Wyatt, once again, plunged into the water, his head bleeding, his lungs screaming. He didn’t have the strength or the will to fight any more. He stopped holding his breath and slipped into oblivion. This time, he wouldn’t be lifted back up.
Chapter 1
Callum Porter walked along the rain-slicked pavement of Rue Saint-Joseph, from the tram stop on Rue du Pont-Neuf, towards his apartment in the Carouge district of Geneva. He’d moved into the Swiss city’s ‘Little Italy’ shortly after he landed the job at the bank and was quickly accepted as part of the community. He’d always loved it here. It had a different atmosphere to the rest of the city: the shops, the architecture, the bars that came to life after dark. It was safe and clean compared to other cities he’d been in, and only a ten-minute ride to the city centre. Perfect, until now. The last few days had been a blur. Every sight and sound conjuring up memories that stabbed at his heart.
His apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building, which was set back from a tree-lined side street, off the main road. He quickened his pace as the rain started to come down again, and soon turned into the apartment block and up the two stone steps into the entrance hall.
Inside the building’s traditional architecture, was a modern design with clean, minimalist lines and glass and chrome trim. Water ran from Porter’s raincoat as he unfastened it, and left small puddles on the faux marble floor. He walked to the mail boxes that ran along the left-hand side of the entrance, and checked for any deliveries. As usual, it was empty. He didn’t receive much mail; he did most of his business online. The single lift in the foyer was on the opposite wall to the mail boxes but he preferred to use the stairs that were next to it. The only time he used the lift was when he had some heavy shopping to carry. He walked through the foyer and climbed the stairs.
On the third floor, the door to the stairs opened on to a single, long passageway with doors on both sides and a window at either end. His apartment, 317, was halfway down on the left. Simple glass and chrome wall lights came on to light his way as he approached. There was no one else around and it was quiet: his neighbours would still be making their way home. He pulled out his door key, slid it into the lock and opened the door.
The inside of his apartment carried on the minimalist decor of the
rest of the building, but here and there were items of furniture that didn’t quite fit in. Things that Porter had picked up in the antique shops and street markets in Carouge. An old wooden set of drawers jutted out into the hallway, spoiling the simple straight line that led from the front door to the kitchen. On the left-hand side of the corridor was the door to the single bedroom and, on the right, the entrance to the living room, where a well-used leather settee and two brightly-coloured, seventies chairs were arranged around a worn wooden coffee table.
Porter stepped into the living room and switched on the light. He let out an involuntary yell at the sight of a man standing next to the window. Porter’s fight or flight response was screaming at him to turn and run. ‘Who … who are you? What do you want? I don’t have anything. Get out of my flat.’
Frank McGill held out his hands, palms up. ‘Calm down, Callum, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.’ He motioned towards the couch. ‘Have a seat.’
Porter’s mind, again, screamed at him to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He had the feeling this intruder would only chase him down, anyway. He looked at McGill. This man spoke with authority, he was obviously used to taking charge in situations like this and used to imposing his will – violently, if necessary. Porter took two steps to the right and sat down.
McGill was unkempt. He wore black leather boots, blue jeans and a faded green combat jacket. His hair was messy and he had a few days’ growth on his chin. No one would pay him any attention, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd on the street; he looked homeless, the kind of man most people ignored as they rushed about their busy lives, unaware of the plight of people who lived on the street. If, later on, he was asked to describe him, Porter would say everything about him looked average: average height, average build, no striking features; not memorable at all.
McGill sat down on one of the seventies chairs, opposite the couch. He sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘You don’t know me, Callum, but I’ve been watching you for a few days. Whenever you left your office for lunch, when you were on your way home, I was there.’
‘I never saw you, how is that possible?’
McGill smiled. ‘It’s what we do for a living, son.’
‘Who is “we”? You’re obviously British, MI5, MI6?’
McGill nodded. ‘Something like that, but you don’t need to know the details.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ID you can show me?’
McGill raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re gonna have to trust me. The people I work for aren’t big on ID.’
‘What do you want from me? I haven’t done anything, I just work in a bank.’
McGill pulled a black and white surveillance photo from his jacket and placed it on the table, in front of Porter. ‘It’s not you we are interested in, Callum. I came here to speak to this man.’ McGill pointed to the photo. ‘Can you tell me who he is?’
Porter picked up the photo and sat back on the couch, staring at it. After a few seconds of silence, he took a deep breath and let out a sigh. ‘His name’s Justin Wyatt.’
McGill could sense that the man in the picture meant something to Porter. ‘We need to speak to him, Callum, it’s for his own safety. Do you know where he is?’
Porter looked around the flat, as if he was checking for anyone who might overhear them – checking for more intruders. ‘How did you find me? We weren’t public about our relationship.’
‘We tracked down Justin by identifying you. Do you know he contacted the British Consulate?’
‘He told me he was planning to talk to the authorities, in case something bad happened, but I didn’t know he had.’
‘He made an anonymous phone call. He gave enough detail to get us interested and said he had more. He didn’t want to give up too much, as he swore there was a mole in the British Government.’
Porter couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he’d always assumed Justin was blowing his stories out of proportion; he’d thought the trouble he might get into would mean arrest, maybe imprisonment. ‘But, if it was anonymous, how did you know it was him?’
‘We traced the phone he used to make the call to the consulate and scanned through CCTV images of the area. We didn’t know his name, but he was the only person to use the phone in that time frame. You showed up in other CCTV images with him and we put two and two together. You were easier to find. You weren’t trying to hide in the way he obviously was.’
‘And then you were sent to find me, to find Justin?’
McGill nodded. ‘We were hoping to leave you out of it. I asked a few questions, hung around in the right areas. I followed you for a few days, hoping to see you together so I could follow him, but you never met up with him again.’
Porter looked down and ran his fingers around the image in the photo. He was struggling to speak, he would never get used to saying it. ‘That’s because he’s dead.’
McGill let out a sigh of frustration. ‘I’m sorry about that, Callum, I really am. What happened? Can you tell me about it?’
‘They found his body in the river. He’d been washed downstream and dragged along the riverbed and rocks. They had difficulty identifying him but found his wallet nearby.’
‘How did you find out about it?’
‘They put a small report in the paper – a few sentences on page eight. They said he’d jumped. They said he killed himself.’
McGill could hear anger in Porter’s voice. ‘But you don’t believe that, do you, Callum?’
Porter felt at ease with McGill. He was glad to be finally unburdening himself, telling someone else his secret. ‘The night before his body was found he told me he was going to break into some guy’s office. He was convinced he was involved in something big: something that would change the world, he said. He was looking for evidence. I thought he was exaggerating.’
‘Did you tell anyone that? Have you spoken to the police?’
Porter’s face was ashen. ‘No, I was too scared. They might have come after me next. Besides, like I said, we always kept our relationship secret. It’s still frowned upon in some circles. I didn’t want to attract attention.’
‘It might already be too late for that. We found you; they will, too, sooner or later.’
‘Who are “they”? What if they found him through me, too? What if he’s dead because of me?’
McGill had to calm Porter down. It was obvious that the young man was afraid. His hands were trembling and he struggled to put a sentence together. McGill spoke to him, calmly and quietly, as he had to the young soldiers in Afghanistan – the ones who’d looked to him for guidance and reassurance. ‘It’s not your fault, Callum. If they knew about you, you’d be dead already.’
Porter was sweating and his heart was racing. He had hoped the authorities would realise someone had murdered Justin; he’d hoped he could go back home to the states and rebuild his life. He wasn’t a naturally courageous man. He was quiet, timid, an introvert. The man sitting in front of him, on the other hand, looked the opposite. ‘What do you … they … I mean …’
McGill had to secure the information he was looking for and get out as soon as possible. ‘The call to the consulate mentioned a notebook.’
Porter nodded. ‘Justin gave me a book. He told me that, if anything happened to him, I had to keep the book safe and watch my back. I thought he was being overdramatic.’
‘I’ll need to see the book, is it here?’
‘Yes, I’ll get it.’
Porter went into his bedroom and slid the wardrobe away from the wall. Taped to the back of it was a small, brown paper parcel. He removed it and took it through to the living room. He held the parcel in both hands, reluctant to let it go. ‘I promised to keep this safe.’
‘You can trust me, son. It’ll be safer with us.’ McGill held out his hand.
Porter knew he couldn’t protect the book and the information inside, he knew McGill was right. He handed him the parcel and stepped back, sitting down on the couch.
>
McGill tore off the brown paper and revealed a small notebook. The front cover was plain and a little dog-eared, with J Wyatt written in the top left corner. McGill opened it and flicked through it; page after page of handwritten notes and drawings, names, dates and places filled the book. McGill recognised some of the names but most of the information meant nothing to him, it would be something for the geeks back home to have a look at and decipher. He put the notebook into a plastic ziplock bag and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘What were you planning to do with the book, Callum?’
Porter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, maybe post it to the embassy in Berne, but I didn’t know who to trust. There are some high-ranking officials mentioned in there.’
‘You’ve read it?’
Porter shook his head. ‘No. Justin told me about some of the people who are in it. I’m not sure I believed him, to be honest. What if he was right and they are involved? If his notes fell into their hands, no one would know about them. He would have died for nothing.’
McGill patted his pocket. ‘You don’t have to worry about it now, Callum. All you need to think about is staying safe.’
‘I should call my dad. Tell him what’s happened. He can help, he’s a …’
‘US senator. Yes, we know. I’ll stay with you until you’re out of harm’s way. We don’t want anything to happen to you because of this.’
The conspiratorial atmosphere in the apartment was shattered by a loud knock. Porter jumped to his feet and stared at the door. Within seconds McGill was standing next to him, whispering into his ear, ‘Are you expecting anyone?’
Porter shook his head. McGill moved silently to the hallway and pulled a silenced Glock from under his jacket. He signalled for Porter to open the door. The young man was unable to move, scared out of his mind. Another loud knock made him jump and McGill, once again, signalled for him to open the door. Porter, hand trembling, reached for the lock and turned it slowly.
The door was violently kicked open and a large man, dressed all in black, pushed his way into the apartment, forcing Porter backwards. ‘Where is the book?’
