Hunting Ground

by L J Morris

  ‘Right. No time like the present.’

  They checked both ways then crossed the road. Sinclair opened the front door and they both went in. Using the only lift was too risky – the noise would advertise their arrival, and they had no way of knowing who would be standing in the corridor waiting for them when the doors opened. McGill pushed open the entrance to the stairs and listened for footsteps – there were none. They entered the stairwell and started the climb to the top floor.

  The exit at the top of the stairs was at the opposite end of the corridor to Kinsella’s flat. McGill pushed it open far enough to check the hallway was empty, then they stepped through and crept towards the front door.

  They didn’t need the key for the door, the lock had been smashed during Carter and Kinsella’s arrest and still hadn’t been fixed. They pushed it open and entered the flat.

  The heavy curtains were closed and, without Kinsella’s usual six monitors to light up the room, the flat was in darkness. Sinclair used a small torch, which she shielded with her hand, to look around the flat. All of Kinsella’s computer equipment had been taken by the police. ‘Nothing left here for us, Frank.’

  McGill pointed at a power socket on the other side of the room. ‘Check that socket. Danny told me it was a last resort that he’d put in place in case this happened.’

  ‘What did he mean by that? Did he know they were coming for him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, maybe he just knew they’d come eventually. Check it anyway, you know how sneaky Danny is.’

  Sinclair knelt next to the power socket and ran her fingers around it; it felt normal. She pulled and twisted it but it wouldn’t move. She pulled out a metal multi-tool from the leather pouch on her belt and unfolded the screwdriver. Working quickly, she unscrewed the front of the double socket and pulled it away from the wall.

  Instead of seeing power cables behind the socket, attached to the back was a metal tray – almost the same width as the socket and about ten inches long. The tray housed what looked like a portable hard drive. Its power lead ran to the back of the supply for the socket itself and a single blue LED glowed on its front. Sinclair removed the power lead and pulled out the hard drive, showing it to McGill. ‘You’re right. He is a sneaky bastard.’ She placed it in her pocket and slid the now empty tray back into the hole. She had just finished fastening the socket into place when they heard a floorboard creak outside the door.

  McGill stepped behind the door just before a uniformed PC shone his torch into the room. ‘Who are you? Stand up and turn around.’

  Sinclair did as she was told, her hands in plain sight. ‘I’m a friend of the owner, I just wondered where he’d got to.’

  ‘Then why are you in the dark?’

  Sinclair shrugged her shoulders. ‘Didn’t want to frighten the cat.’

  ‘Is that the best you can come up with? You’ll have to come down to the station with me.’

  Sinclair sighed. ‘Don’t hurt him too much.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to—’

  The rest of the police officer’s question remained unsaid, as McGill’s arm tightened around the young man’s neck and cut off the blood supply to his brain. The officer struggled and tried to escape, but McGill was too good at this kind of thing. The officer was unconscious in seconds.

  Sinclair switched off her torch and put it away. ‘Let’s get out of here in case there’s two of them. How is he?’

  McGill checked the PC’s pulse. ‘He’s okay. He’ll wake up in a few minutes with a headache, but we shouldn’t be here when he calls it in.’

  They left the door to the flat open and went back down the stairs to the entrance. Outside in the street was a police vehicle, with another, older officer sitting behind the wheel. They were now trapped between the young officer, who would wake up in a matter of minutes, and the vehicle parked outside. McGill kicked the bottom of the door. ‘Shit. Now what?’

  ‘We get back upstairs, quick.’

  They both sprinted back to Kinsella’s flat. As they entered, the younger PC was just waking up. McGill grabbed him and pushed him face down on the carpet, kneeling on his back.

  Sinclair knelt beside the PC and spoke clearly. ‘If you do as you are told, you’ll be okay. Do you understand?’

  The officer nodded as well as he could in the position he was in.

  ‘That’s good. If you try to do anything else, I’ll let this guy fuck you up. Do you understand that?’

  Again, the PC nodded.

  ‘Let him up.’

  McGill sat the PC up and stayed behind him with his arm around his throat.

  Sinclair moved and knelt directly in front of the now terrified officer. ‘Get on the radio and get your colleague in here, now.’

  The PC pressed the transmit button on his radio and spoke into the mic. ‘Sarge, you need to get in here.’

  The voice that replied was quiet and tinny. ‘Can’t you do anything on your own? What is it?’

  ‘Trust me, sarge. You need to be in here.’

  The tinny voice sounded more annoyed. ‘For fuck’s sake. I’m on my way up. This had better be good.’

  ‘Sorry about this, mate.’ McGill tightened his hold and, once again, the PC was unconscious.

  They left the flat and stood beside the lift; they’d assumed the older officer would come up that way, but wanted to be sure. They heard a mechanical clank as the lift descended to the bottom floor, and watched as the numbers glowed in turn as it headed for the top floor.

  As soon as the lift was half way up, Sinclair and McGill ran down the stairs and stopped at the front door. McGill checked outside, the police vehicle was empty and the street was quiet. ‘That’s it, let’s go.’ He pushed open the door and they both slipped out, unnoticed.

  * * *

  The safe house was empty. Sinclair and McGill had searched it top to bottom to ensure Porter wasn’t there. When they’d arrived back from their recce trip, they’d found his simple note:

  Gone to the bank. Back in an hour. Callum.

  ‘Stupid.’ Sinclair screwed up the note and threw it across the room. ‘What does he think he’s doing?’

  McGill sat on the couch. ‘We can’t go looking for him, he could be anywhere. It was a big enough risk just going into London today. We’ll have to wait a while and see if he makes it back on his own.’

  They waited: one hour; two; three. Sinclair started to fill a backpack. ‘That’s long enough. Something’s happened. I’m going to find him.’

  McGill packed his own bag: clothes, money, weapons; things that would be useful, but not heavy enough to slow them down. ‘Okay, but we do this properly. We do it my way.’

  ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this sneaking about shit. Constantly hiding and waiting for Vadim to come and find us. We go on the offensive, hunt these fuckers down and get Callum back.’

  ‘With Simeon and Danny in prison we’ll be on our own.’

  ‘I think it’s time to contact Harry Nash. See what else he can do to help us out. No matter what we think of what he is, he must have a network of people who can move us around, watchers who’ll know if there’s anything out of the ordinary going on. He’s our best bet of finding Callum.’

  ‘What if we’re too late? Without the evidence, the authorities won’t believe us.’

  ‘Then we bury Vadim and his whole organisation ourselves. We kill everyone who gets in our way. We take out Vadim and finish this once and for all. Agreed?’

  Sinclair nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’

  McGill used the details they’d been given to leave a message for Nash and waited for a return call. Within twenty minutes a meeting had been arranged for the next day. All they had to do was get there.

  They put on their packs, had one last check to make sure they had everything, and left the house. Out in the street the streetlights were just coming on; they had twelve hours to get to the meeting. There was no traffic and no one walking about,
it was going to be harder to blend in than it had been earlier in the day. Public transport wasn’t an option as they couldn’t risk being stopped by police when they were carrying weapons, that was going to make it a difficult trip. They would need to stay off the roads where police could have checkpoints. Stop and search powers were being used liberally by anti-terrorist officers as they tried to pick up anyone they saw as a threat. An escaped convict carrying a gun would definitely fall into that category.

  The only option Sinclair and McGill had was to take an indirect route that kept them away from as many public roads as possible. They would have to stick to using paths that crossed parks, and moving through gardens that lay between rows of houses. Car parks, tow paths and underpasses – anything that was out of public view. As they got closer, they would have to use back alleys and roof tops, crawl through the sewers if they had to. Whatever it took. They had to treat this like a covert mission behind enemy lines. With Vadim and the police looking for them, that’s what it was.

  * * *

  When Porter woke up he was lying on his back on a mouldy, stinking mattress in the corner of a darkened room. The stench of urine was overpowering and he gagged as he took in a breath. He rolled onto his side; a thin sliver of light was coming from underneath the door, opposite where he lay, but not enough for him to see what, or who else was in the room.

  Porter sat up, his head pounded and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t remember much about the last few hours or how he’d got there. He remembered the white van pulling up and somebody grabbing him, but after that, everything was a jumble of lights and colours flashing through his memory.

  He climbed to his feet, his legs like jelly, and staggered towards the door. He tried to open it but, unsurprisingly, it was locked. He ran his hands up the wall beside the door until, at shoulder height, his fingers brushed against what he was looking for: a light switch. He turned it on and immediately regretted it. When the single, bare lightbulb flickered into life, it was like someone had poured hot sand into his eyes. He screwed them tightly shut as he tried to adjust to the sudden assault on his senses. His head pounded even harder and waves of nausea attacked his stomach. He staggered back to the other side of the room and lost his balance, falling back onto the mattress where he curled into a ball.

  Through the pain that filled his head, Porter heard a padlock rattling as someone unlocked the door. When the door opened even more light flooded into the room, making him curl into an even tighter ball. He heard someone walk across the room to the mattress and put something down beside him. ‘Something to eat and drink, Callum. The drugs will wear off soon, you’ll feel much better. Just try and get some sleep. We’ll all talk in the morning.’

  Porter tried to open his eyes to see who his captor was, but it was no good. He couldn’t see anything but a bright, blinding light. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  The voice was calm and quiet. ‘You don’t need to know who I am, Callum. Just drink some water and sleep.’

  Porter listened to the man’s footsteps as he walked back out of the room, switching off the light as he left.

  Porter waited until he heard the door close and the padlock rattle before opening his eyes. The pain in his head and eyes was now a dull throb. He grabbed one of the plastic bottles his captor had brought in and took a long drink, spilling some of the water on his chest. He lay back down and stared at the light under the door, thoughts running through his head. What the fuck was he doing here? Why hadn’t he stayed in the house like Ali had told him? He’d been stupid to think he could take care of things himself, stupid. He knew the only reason he was alive was because whoever had him locked up wanted the folder. He had no doubt they would force him to get it for them, but then what? Would he end up like Justin, another suicide from a bridge? Maybe something even worse. Where were Ali and Frank? Would they come and get him? He didn’t want to be here any more, he didn’t want to be involved in any of this. He wanted to go home, he wanted to see his family again. He closed his eyes and began to sob.

  Chapter 31

  The Black Lion was at the centre of an area that estate agents would describe as up and coming. Traditionally, it was an area of crushing poverty. Most of the residents worked in manual jobs at the docks, or at one of the small manufacturers that littered the area. In more recent years, they’d watched as neighbourhoods closer to the city were given over to high-value office blocks and housing – part of the capital’s financial district. There was a spreading wave of development, funded by the billions that poured into the city in the eighties, but progress was slow. It wasn’t until the millennium that the Black Lion had started to see signs of investment around it.

  The area was now enjoying the effects of the massive investment that had accompanied the 2012 Olympic Games. It was an easily commutable distance from the heart of the city, and modern, high-value properties were being built in neighbouring boroughs. Property prices were on the up, a large part of the reason Nash had stepped in and snapped up the pub when the previous owner had died.

  From the outside it still looked a little run down. The exterior was surrounded by a cage of scaffolding, where Nash was having the crumbling brickwork renewed and the windows replaced. By the time the work was finished, it would look as good as new, but it would still have its historic appearance.

  On the inside no changes had been made, yet. It was still an old-fashioned, spit and sawdust boozer. Bare, oak floorboards, with some questionable stains, ran in front of a classic mahogany bar; the once glistening brass fittings that adorned it, were now tarnished and dented with some missing altogether.

  Nash’s plan was to rip out the old mahogany and replace it with a modern bar and food counter, selling craft beers, flavoured gins and various snacks. The floorboards and wooden furniture would be cleaned up and kept, and a coffee bar would be built in the corner. The walls were to be stripped back to the brick and some industrial lighting fitted. Everything that millennials and hipsters wanted from a pub. Of course, the regulars wouldn’t be happy, but they’d get used to it.

  Sinclair and McGill opened the door and walked up to the bar, watched every step of the way by two men who sat in a corner booth nursing mugs of coffee. An old woman, in her seventies, cleaned glasses behind the bar and placed them on a shelf above the taps. She smiled at McGill. ‘We’re not serving alcohol at the moment, my love, but I can do you both a cup of coffee and a bacon roll, if you’d like one?’

  McGill returned the smile. ‘I’d love a bacon roll and a coffee. Thanks very much.’

  ‘You both look like you need one.’

  McGill and Sinclair were looking rough. It had been a long night, zig-zagging their way to the pub from the safe house. They had crawled through hedges and hidden behind several wheelie bins on the way, and now sported a covering of twigs and bits of leaves. They both had smudges of dirt on their faces and looked like they had slept on the street.

  Sinclair tucked some stray hair behind her ear. ‘We’re here to meet with Harry Nash. We’re Mr and Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘I thought you might be. I knew you weren’t local, never seen you around here before.’ She nodded to the two men who were nursing their pints. In unison, they took a mouthful of beer and went back to their game of dominoes. ‘I’m Barbara, I was told to expect you. Now, if you follow me, I’ll take you upstairs.’

  Sinclair and McGill followed Barbara, as she led them through a doorway at the end of the bar and up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top was an equally narrow hallway that had several doorways leading off it. Barbara opened one of the doors and walked through.

  On the other side of the door was a double bedroom, easily big enough to accommodate the king-size bed that was under the large sash window in the middle of the wall. On the right-hand side was a fitted wardrobe that covered the full length of the room, floor to ceiling. Barbara walked to the window and closed the curtains; she opened another door that led to an en suite bathroom. ‘There you
go, my loves. Get yourselves cleaned up and make yourselves at home. There are clothes in the wardrobe that might fit you both. Take your time, I’ll go and make some coffee.’

  Sinclair dropped her backpack on the bed. ‘Thanks, Barbara.’

  The old woman left the room and closed the door behind her.

  Sinclair looked at McGill. ‘Well, she was nice. Bit of a cliché, though. Do you think she’s actually like that?’

  ‘You mean the typical East End barmaid? Salt of the earth. Went to school with the Kray twins, cor blimey, apples and pears.’

  Sinclair laughed at McGill’s attempt at a cockney accent. ‘Maybe she puts on an act for any tourists that drop in.’

  McGill nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m sure this place is a stop off on all the open-top bus routes.’

  Sinclair was rifling through the wardrobe looking for something she could change into. She went for her typical jeans and T-shirt. ‘These’ll do. Right, me first in the shower.’ She ran to the bathroom, smiling at McGill as she closed the door.

  McGill shouted after her, ‘How old are you, twelve?’

  * * *

  It took a little under an hour for the two of them to get cleaned up. McGill opened the curtains but the light was blocked by the scaffolding. ‘Lovely view.’

  ‘How long do you think he’ll keep us waiting?’

  McGill shrugged. ‘Maybe he wants to show us who’s in charge. Maybe it’s a—’

  McGill was cut short by a knock on the door.

  Sinclair reached out and opened it. Barbara was standing in the hallway, smiling at them. ‘Are you ready?’

  McGill smiled back. ‘As ready as we’ll ever be, Barbara. Lead the way.’

  The old woman headed along the hall, followed by McGill. Sinclair closed the door behind her and quickly caught up. At the end of the hallway was another door, identical to the one they had gone through into the bedroom. Barbara turned the handle and pushed it open, waving them into the room. ‘Here you go, my loves. I’ll put a pot of tea on for you and bring it through in a minute.’