Hunting Ground

by L J Morris

  Sinclair looked at McGill for some backup. ‘It’s still too risky. Vadim might know about the bank. He could have people there right now, just waiting to pick us up.’

  ‘Ali’s right, Callum. We can leave it for a day or two, until we figure things out. This operation isn’t going to be a quick hit.’

  Porter was disappointed. He’d thought if only he could go to the bank and get the file, all this would end. He reluctantly agreed. ‘Okay then. You’re the experts, but I still think we could pull it off. We could wear sunglasses or something, so no one recognises us. It wouldn’t be that—’

  Sinclair cut him off. ‘NO, Callum. This isn’t a game. I owe your dad a big favour and I’m not going to blow it by watching you get killed.’

  Porter sat back, and sank into the couch like a naughty child.

  Sinclair felt guilty. Porter was so far out of his comfort zone he wasn’t thinking straight. He had no experience to draw on, to tell him what the best thing was to do. ‘I’m sorry, Callum. You’ll just have to trust us. Okay?’

  Porter smiled. ‘Okay, Ali. I understand.’

  ‘Me and Frank will go and recce the route to the bank, see if there are any roadblocks or checkpoints – any extra security that might get in our way.’

  ‘You think there will be?’

  ‘There’s just been a major terrorist attack against the UK government, I’d say there’s a good chance.’

  ‘I could help with that.’

  Sinclair pointed at herself and McGill. ‘We can pose as a couple, blend in. Three people would stand out more, raise suspicions. You just hang on here, Callum. Put your feet up, watch TV. We’ll be back soon.’

  McGill threw a baseball cap to Sinclair. ‘Here you go, Ali. Tie your hair up and put that on. The police won’t be looking for us right now, they’ve got bigger fish to fry, but it’s best not to take the risk. That’ll make you fairly anonymous.’

  ‘What about your disguise?’

  ‘I don’t really need one, I’m not an escaped convict. Besides …’ McGill put on a pair of sunglasses. ‘I’ll just be cool in my shades.’

  Sinclair shook her head. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it. Lock the door behind us, Callum.’

  They slipped out of the back door and into the alley behind the house; it was deserted. They picked their way between the wheelie bins, rubbish sacks and a discarded sofa, to where the alley opened out on to the main street, and paused for a moment. They saw nothing unusual, just ordinary people going about their business. As always, the everyday person on the street refused to panic, or change what they did, despite recent events. Sinclair and McGill waited for a group of teenagers to pass the entrance to the alley then slotted in behind them; just a couple out walking, hand in hand, without a care in the world.

  For the first mile, Sinclair chose a route that zig-zagged and snaked around the local area, as McGill kept a watch for anyone following them. They changed direction frequently, stopped to sit on a park bench for a few minutes, and at one point, doubled-back and headed around the corner they had just turned. Once they were happy that no one was following, they made for the underground.

  The atmosphere at the bottom of the escalator was completely different. There had been no sign of any increased security above ground, but when they reached the ticket hall, armed police were manning the barriers. More police with dogs stood to one side, while other officers searched people at random.

  Sinclair and McGill stood at the back of the queue for one of the gates. They couldn’t turn and leave, it would arouse suspicion. They each held one of the oyster cards they’d been given and hoped they worked first time and weren’t stolen. The last thing they needed was to end up being arrested for something stupid. If Vadim found out they were being held, their lives would be worthless.

  Sinclair was first to reach the barrier. She held her Oyster card to the reader, the gate opened and she walked through, no problem. As McGill reached out to scan his card, a police officer stepped forward. ‘Could you step out of the line, please, sir?’

  McGill did his best to look innocent. ‘Anything wrong, Officer?’

  ‘Just a routine check, sir. Please stand over here.’ The officer guided him away from the rest of the passengers. ‘Stand with your legs shoulder-width apart and arms out to the side.’

  McGill did as he was told. ‘Just to let you know, I came off my bike a few days ago and I’ve got stitches in my back and legs. Could you be careful, please?’

  The officer carefully patted down McGill and lingered over the area where his bandages were. ‘Can you show us the stitches, please? Just to be sure.’

  McGill lifted his T-shirt at the back and turned around. The police officer whistled as McGill moved the dressing aside. ‘That’s a nasty looking one, mate. I’ve come off my bike a few times. I know how it feels.’

  ‘Doesn’t help when you fall off in your own driveway.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘Well, it started off as a quiet night in the pub …’

  Sinclair tapped her finger on the screen of her phone, trying not to look too worried that McGill had been stopped. If things went bad, she would have to leave Frank and carry on alone. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he was searched, and sighed with relief as the police officer started laughing at whatever story McGill was recounting. It looked like Frank had used his charm to get out of another sticky situation. He was good at that.

  McGill was taken to the front of the queue and he swiped his Oyster card. The police officer winked at him. ‘Take it easy, mate. Don’t burst your stitches.’

  Frank smiled and nodded. ‘I’ll try not to. Thanks.’

  He quickly caught up with Sinclair and the two of them walked down to the trains. ‘That was too close for comfort. I think we’ll avoid using public transport from here on in.’

  ‘Definitely. It looks like paranoia has well and truly set in.’

  ‘And it’ll only get worse, the closer we get to the city. At least it looks like they aren’t doing any checks on people leaving London.’

  They walked onto the platform just as the train pulled in and stopped. The voice from the loudspeakers told them to ‘mind the gap’ as they stepped into the carriage. The heat was stifling: too many bodies crammed into a small space with no ventilation. Sinclair took off her jacket and tied it around her waist. She pulled a tissue out of her jeans and dabbed some of the sweat from her face. ‘Why is it always too bloody hot down here?’

  ‘I thought you’d be used to it, with all your time in Mexico?’

  ‘I’ve never loved the heat, Frank. You know that. It’s okay when you’re on the beach, with a pina colada, but in places like this, and in a Mexican prison, it’s just shit.’

  They’d changed trains three times on their way in to the centre of London, more anti-surveillance techniques to uncover any followers, and were walking along the concourse at Waterloo Station.

  McGill ducked into a newsagents and came out with a street map and an I Love London hat. ‘This’ll make us look like tourists. We can wander about and take photos. We’ll look just like everyone else.’

  ‘Let’s swing past the bank first, see what CCTV and security they’ve got in the area. Where is it?’

  ‘On the other side of the river, close to the police station.’

  Sinclair tried not to sound too sarcastic, but it was proving difficult. ‘Oh, that’s fantastic.’

  ‘We do it quick, no one’ll notice us. Take lots of selfies and smile, just another couple of tourists. We know there’ll be a load of CCTV along the Strand, but we need to check security in the bank itself.’

  ‘Okay. Then we figure out a route back to the safe house that doesn’t include police checkpoints.’

  ‘Agreed. Let’s get on with it.’

  They exited the station and turned left towards Waterloo Bridge.

  Within a few minutes they were standing on London’s Strand. It was, as always, busy, but it now had the additio
n of extra security. Armed police and military stood on corners in amongst the tourists and office workers who competed for space on the crowded pavements. The cycle couriers seemed a little more cautious than usual, as they zig-zagged between pedestrians and traffic. The security level had been increased to critical and news reports were saying another attack could be imminent. People didn’t outwardly look worried, but they were.

  Sinclair and McGill made their way towards the bank, which was sited away from the Strand and down a side street. They stopped on the corner and checked for cameras. All of the monitoring in the area was concentrated on the main road. There was one CCTV camera mounted on the outside of the bank, pointing at the door. The outer door was dark blue with a white number three painted on it. On one side of it was a frosted glass window, protected by ornate, wrought-iron bars. On the other side was the only indication of what the property was; a brass plaque read: Brown & MacMillan. Private Bank.

  ‘We need to see inside, Ali. Get an idea of what we’re walking into. Make sure it hasn’t changed since Callum worked there.’

  ‘I’ll go in and ask about prices for a deposit box. You have a walk and see if there’s another entrance.’

  McGill nodded. ‘Okay.’

  Sinclair turned the handle on the outer door and stepped in to the bank’s reception.

  The inside was as anonymous as the outside. Anyone seeing a photograph of it wouldn’t think it was a bank. A young woman sat at the small entrance hall’s only desk. The walls were lined with mahogany panelling and brass wall lights. There was one other door out of the hall, behind the desk. The young woman smiled. ‘Can I help?’

  Sinclair scanned the walls and ceiling for cameras – she could only see one. ‘Wow, this place sure doesn’t look like a bank.’

  ‘We like to keep it traditional. We’ve been here for nearly two hundred years and a lot of our customers prefer it this way.’

  Sinclair smiled at the young woman. ‘I was just looking for some information on your safe-deposit boxes. Price, security; that kind of thing.’

  ‘It’s all in here.’ The young woman handed Sinclair a glossy A4 brochure. ‘We do require references before we take you on as a client, but, if you decide that you like what you see, you can book an appointment with us.’ She flashed Sinclair another smile.

  ‘Could I just have a quick look at your vault? Just so I know how secure it is.’

  ‘If you’d like to book an appointment, we can show you around then. After we’ve got your references, of course.’

  Sinclair could see that she wasn’t getting any further into the bank. This woman’s job was obviously to put off casual enquiries. This was the sort of bank that catered for the rich and their associates – recommendation only. ‘Okay.’ She held up the brochure. ‘I’ll have a read of this and get back to you. Thank you.’

  Another fake smile spread across the woman’s face. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Sinclair left the bank.

  McGill was standing outside. ‘Only a fire escape around the back. Nothing that will help us. Anything inside?’

  ‘No, no help at all. There’s one camera in reception but I couldn’t see any of the rest of the bank. It’s all mahogany panelling and brass fittings.’

  ‘A bank for people with money then?’

  Sinclair held up the brochure. ‘The receptionist gave me this. She said I needed references if I wanted to become a client.’

  ‘How the hell did Justin get a box here?’

  ‘Don’t forget, Callum’s family are very well-off and seriously connected. I would think that, combined with Callum working here, would be enough.’

  ‘Not a bank for the likes of us then.’

  Sinclair smiled and put the brochure into her jacket. ‘Well, definitely not you.’

  McGill shook his head. ‘I’ll give that remark the damn good ignoring it deserves.’

  Sinclair pushed McGill’s shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here. We need to go and check Danny’s flat. See if there’s anything there that can help us.’

  * * *

  Porter had waited, just like Ali said. He had watched TV and waited, drunk tea and waited; now, he paced around the living room of the safe house with his fake passport in his hand, mumbling to himself. If he got to the bank and picked up the evidence in the deposit box, he could save Ali and Frank from any more problems. He could finish this on his own. Ali and Frank wouldn’t be in danger any more, and everyone would know what Justin had done – how heroic he had been. All he had to do was get a taxi straight to the bank, open the deposit box, and bring the folder back here before anyone noticed he had gone.

  He dropped the passport onto the table and ran his fingers through his hair. He was being stupid. What if something happened? He knew he shouldn’t leave the house, Ali had told him to stay here, but he wanted to help. He slumped on the couch and picked up the TV remote, surfed the channels and waited some more.

  It was no good. He turned off the TV and picked up the passport. His mind was made up. He phoned a cab, put the passport in his pocket and left the house.

  As Porter got into the taxi, the motorcycle courier who had been watching the house, put on his helmet and started the bike’s engine. His instructions were to follow anyone he saw leaving the house and report where they went. As the taxi pulled away, the courier merged with the traffic and followed at a distance.

  Chapter 28

  DS Zoe Gardner pushed the record button and waited for the long tone to stop. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Zoe Gardner’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s ten twenty-five, on Monday the twenty-third, and this is an interview with …’

  Simeon Carter looked tired. He hadn’t slept properly since his arrest and was sick of playing these games. What he wanted to do was say nothing, but he didn’t want them to think they were breaking him. He cleared his throat and sat forward slightly. ‘Simeon Carter.’

  DS Gardner nodded. ‘Also present in the room are …’

  The man to the left of the DS straightened his back. He was getting as tired of these interviews as Carter was. ‘Detective Constable Keith Lawton.’

  Gardner pointed toward Carter’s solicitor. ‘And …’

  Carter’s solicitor worked for a very old, very expensive practice in London. One of the perks of Kinsella’s success was that he could afford the best. The solicitor looked and sounded exactly how an expensive solicitor should: immaculate three-piece suit, gold rimmed glasses and a privately educated accent. He took a file out of his equally expensive briefcase and placed it on the desk. ‘Peter Fawcett.’

  In an adjacent room, Detective Chief Superintendent Nicholas Thorpe studied the CCTV images of Simeon Carter, looking for some sign of weakness. Thorpe wanted to be the one interviewing the old man, but the rules didn’t allow it. He would have to watch as his DS took the lead on this. He glanced sideways at the man who sat quietly in the corner.

  Edward Lancaster brushed some lint from his trouser leg but didn’t look up. He didn’t want any facial expression to give away his relationship with Carter.

  Thorpe looked at Lancaster with disdain. He didn’t like the intelligence monkeys interfering in his work. What was he doing here, anyway? This wasn’t anything they needed his help with.

  Lancaster finally looked up, aware Thorpe didn’t want him in the room, but determined to let the DCS know who had the higher rank.

  Thorpe lowered his eyes and went back to watching the images. The DCS’s hatred of Lancaster burned inside him. He gritted his teeth, muttering something under his breath.

  Back in the interview room, Gardner began her questions. ‘Now, Mr Carter, today we’re here to continue your questioning about the attack on the UK government in Geneva. Tell me what you know about it.’

  Carter sighed. ‘I’ve told you already, Danny Kinsella and I had nothing to do with it, you’re barking up the wrong tree. You should be—’

  Gardner held up her hand and cut Carter off. ‘I wish I could believe you, Simeon
, I really do. Unfortunately for you, we’ve found evidence that shows you were aware of a conspiracy to launch an attack.’

  ‘Being aware of a conspiracy is a lot different to being involved.’

  Lancaster shifted in his seat. ‘I’ve seen the evidence, Chief Superintendent. It isn’t that compelling.’

  Thorpe stared at Lancaster. ‘It was enough to get these two locked up on remand, Mr Lancaster.’

  Lancaster smiled. ‘Getting people locked up isn’t difficult, in the current climate. I do hope you have something else to go on.’

  Thorpe shook his head. Who did Lancaster think he was dealing with? He wasn’t some rookie detective who could be intimidated. He was in charge, not Lancaster.

  Gardner continued. ‘It really would be better for you if you cooperated, Simeon. You’re going down anyway.’

  Carter sniffed. ‘It’s Mr Carter to you, and I was doing this kind of shit before you were born. If your evidence is so good, you don’t need me to help.’

  Gardner tapped her pencil on the desk. ‘Where are Sinclair and McGill?’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

  Lancaster butted in again. ‘Sinclair was one of ours. She is on the run, probably still in the US. If she was here, we would know; unless you’ve got evidence of that, too?’

  Thorpe hated spooks, they always looked down on people like him. Carter and Lancaster were cut from the same cloth and Thorpe knew they had worked together before.

  Gardner opened a cardboard file and spread several printed sheets out in front of Carter. ‘We have evidence to show that you have been in touch with Ali Sinclair, an escaped convict, and Frank McGill – a man suspected of helping her and someone who is guilty of a great many things.’

  ‘If he’s guilty of something, why isn’t he in prison?’

  Fawcett interrupted. ‘I don’t see what this has to do with the allegations against my client.’

  Gardner nodded at Fawcett then looked back at Carter. ‘Who is your contact within MI6?’

  ‘I retired from MI6 some time ago, DS Gardner. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Carter gave Gardner his best smile.