Hunting Ground

by L J Morris

  McGill stepped to one side to let her leave. ‘Thank you, Barbara.’

  Inside the room, a woman in her mid-forties sat at a plain pine desk, typing on a laptop. She wore light brown trousers, and a white shirt with the sleeves turned up at the cuff. Her dark hair was gathered up in a bun and she wore horn-rimmed glasses. As Barbara closed the door, the woman looked up and removed her glasses. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  Sinclair and McGill looked at each other. They weren’t sure what they had expected to find in the room, but this wasn’t it at all. McGill wondered who she was – Nash’s PA? Did gangsters have PAs? The woman stood and waved them towards a pair of old, brown, leather sofas that had been placed on either side of one of the tables brought up from the bar. ‘Have a seat, we’ll have some tea in a minute.’

  The door opened and Barbara reappeared with a tray full of cups and a teapot. ‘There we are.’ She put it on the table and, once again, left the room.

  McGill couldn’t believe how surreal and banal this all felt. ‘We came for a meeting with Harry Nash. Is he here?’

  The woman poured out three cups of tea. ‘I’m Harry Nash, kind of. Please, help yourselves to milk and sugar.’

  Sinclair took one of the cups. ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’

  The woman smiled. ‘I’m Harriette Nash. My friends call me Harry. Same name as my dad, different reputation. Where are my manners?’ She stood and held out her hand. ‘It’s good to meet you both.’

  McGill shook hands but looked confused. ‘So, it’s your dad who’s the gangster?’

  ‘My dad is still the head of the organisation, but he’s mainly retired now. I stepped in to run things two years ago, after he had his heart attack. Too much good living and excitement, I imagine. I changed the whole set-up. We’re more of a legit business these days, or we’re trying to be; stocks and shares, property development, that kind of thing.’

  Sinclair took a sip of her tea. ‘You’ve got some shady contacts for a legit business.’

  ‘It’s only been two years since my dad retired and he cast a big shadow around here. His name still counts for a lot, but there are people who would like to see him dead. I have to protect my family, and that means employing some guys with a questionable history. Most were here when Dad was running things – some of them are leg breakers from the early days. I like to look after them. After all, where else would they go?’

  McGill didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘So you’re a charity now?’

  Sinclair glared at him. ‘You’ll have to excuse Frank, he doesn’t play well with others.’

  ‘It’s okay, I know it sounds a bit strange.’ Nash poured herself another cup of tea. ‘Look, my dad is … was, a hard man – brutal, some would say – but he had to be. When he started out, the Krays were at their height. He had to make sure he didn’t step on their toes, and at the same time, protect his little bit of territory, violently in most cases. I’m a different generation, I’ve been trying to change things for years. I finally convinced him you can make more money with a laptop than through illegal gambling and smuggled fags.’

  ‘So, he became a business man?’

  Nash shook her head. ‘Dad hasn’t changed at all. He’s still an old-fashioned cockney gangster. He doesn’t take any shit, and if someone gets out of line they get a slap. But he’s getting on a bit now and things have changed. There’s a new breed of criminal here now, that doesn’t play by our rules. Eastern European gangs, heavily into drugs, people smuggling and prostitution. Dad was never involved in anything like that. Mum would never have allowed it.’

  McGill was starting to warm to Harriette Nash, she reminded him of some of the women he’d grown up with. Streetwise and smart with a fierce sense of loyalty, they weren’t afraid to break the law, but deep down they were good people and looked after their own. ‘Your dad sounds like someone I would get along with.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, Frank. I’ll introduce you to him when I can. He spends most of his time at our country house, doesn’t like the city any more. Since I invested in this place, Mum travels in now and again to give me a hand, she’s a big help. I’m hoping that in five years we’ll be completely legit, and won’t need to be involved in guns or violence any more.’

  Sinclair put her cup on the table. ‘I hope you achieve that, Harry, I really do, but I’m afraid the help we need now is going to involve both.’

  Nash leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. ‘When Gabriel Vance asked us for help, he knew my dad wouldn’t say no. Gabriel saved my dad’s life when one of the other firms had him shot. Kept him alive till the ambulance arrived. We owe him a lot. So, if he wants me to help you, I’ll do everything I can.’ She sat back again. ‘What do you need from me? I assume you need help rescuing your friend?’

  Sinclair sat up straight. ‘Callum, yes, but how did you know?’

  ‘I had one of our young guys watch the safe house, in case anyone came snooping about. He saw Callum leave and he followed him to the Strand. He said three men in a van picked him up.’

  ‘We were on the Strand yesterday, he must have been going to the bank; we must have just missed him. Do you know where they’re holding him?’

  Nash walked to her desk and picked up a page ripped from a notebook. ‘This is the address. I’ve got someone watching it.’

  Sinclair took the note and looked at the address. ‘We’ll get over there, now.’

  Nash shook her head. ‘Not so fast, you don’t know the area. Give me a minute and I’ll get someone to go with you.’ She picked up her mobile and tapped the screen. ‘Ask Luke to come upstairs, please, I’ve got a job for him.’

  Chapter 32

  Callum Porter didn’t feel any better than he had the previous evening. His head was still throbbing and he was unsteady on his feet, staggering around like a Friday night drunk. They had questioned him for hours, late into the night. He’d tried to resist, he really had, but in the end he couldn’t take any more pain. He’d told them everything: the notebook, Shawford’s memoir folder, the safety-deposit box. His body was bruised and his ribs ached. He had taken punch after punch, only his face was unmarked. Justin had died rather than tell them anything, but Porter couldn’t take it. He felt ashamed.

  When he woke up they gave him some clean clothes and a couple of paracetamols; they hadn’t kicked in yet and he felt sick. He tried to shield his eyes from the daylight, as he was frogmarched down the path and into the van, but no matter what he did, the light found a way to jab at his eyes.

  One of his captors, the one with a beard that made him look like Captain Haddock, handed him a pair of cheap, red plastic sunglasses. ‘Here, put these on. The shit feeling will ease off in a little while.’

  Porter put on his new eyewear and climbed into one of the front passenger seats, next to the driver. The third man, who he had seen the previous day, had left the house early. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  The captain climbed in beside him and closed the door. ‘Today, Callum, you’re going to take us to where the evidence is. We’re all going to the bank to make a withdrawal.’

  Porter felt that his betrayal of Justin was now complete. He was going to hand everything to them. Ali and Frank couldn’t help him now. Vadim’s men were about to get hold of the only thing that could stop all of this. He bowed his head and clasped his hands together in his lap. He knew it would also mean his death, they didn’t need him any more. The driver put the van into gear and pulled away.

  Brown & MacMillan had just opened its doors when the van pulled up outside. The driver stayed where he was while Captain Haddock helped Callum climb out onto the pavement. ‘Just do everything I tell you, Callum, and you’ll be fine.’

  Porter paused and looked at him. ‘That’s not true, is it?’

  The man looked Porter in the eyes. ‘It’ll go better for you if we get what we want. Do you understand that?’

  Porter nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

&nbs
p; The receptionist had only just made a coffee and sat down when they walked in. She was hoping for a little time to fully wake up before having to deal with any customers. She had been at an old friend’s birthday party the night before, and her head still felt a bit muggy, like it was packed with cotton wool. She put down her cup and flashed her best smile. ‘Good morning, how can I help you?’

  Porter didn’t respond, he just stood still, head bowed. The bearded guy stepped forward and handed the receptionist a piece of paper and Porter’s fake passport. ‘You’ll have to excuse my nephew, he’s a little under the weather this morning. He’d like to access his deposit box, please.’

  The receptionist took the passport. ‘It’s okay, I feel a little rough myself, to be honest.’ She typed some details into her keyboard and checked that the passport matched. ‘Everything looks good, if you’ll follow me.’

  Porter and his guard followed the receptionist down to the basement and, after checking in with the security guard, went into the vault.

  The receptionist put her key in the front of the box and turned it. ‘I’ll leave you two alone. Just put your key in to get access. Let the security guard know once you’ve finished.’ She walked out, heading back up the stairs.

  Captain Haddock turned Porter’s key in the lock and slid the box out, placing it on the table in the middle of the vault. ‘Time to see what all the fuss is about.’ He opened the box and they both looked in.

  Sitting alone in the box was a book. Not a notebook, or a folder full of information, but a dog-eared edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. Captain Haddock picked it up. ‘What the fuck is this? Where’s the folder?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I thought it would be here.’

  Haddock threw the book against the wall and kicked the table. ‘Fuck.’

  The security guard stood at the door. ‘Is everything okay, gentlemen?’

  Porter picked up the book, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.

  Captain Haddock grabbed Porter’s arm and pushed him towards the stairs. ‘Everything’s just fucking dandy. We’re leaving.’

  Porter was pushed through reception, out of the front door and back into the van.

  The driver put down his newspaper. ‘Everything good?’

  Captain Haddock got in and slammed the door. ‘No, everything isn’t fucking good.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He gestured at Porter. ‘Fucknuts here said the folder would be in there, but all we found was some stupid book.’

  The driver started the engine. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We get back to the house. I’m gonna have to phone Vadim and try and explain why he shouldn’t just have us killed for fucking up.’

  The driver turned the wheel and pulled away from the bank. ‘You ever met this guy, Vadim?’

  Captain Haddock shook his head. ‘None of us have. He’s just a voice on the phone. From what I’ve heard, meeting him shortens your lifespan.’ He swiped the screen of his phone and pressed the only number stored in it.

  Chapter 33

  The Home Secretary stood at the despatch box and confirmed that, after internal party meetings, he would be stepping into the role of prime minister during the current crisis. ‘I can also confirm that the PM is now under the care of our own wonderful doctors and nurses and is receiving the best of care. He has not recovered consciousness, yet, but doctors are hopeful he will very soon. I look forward to welcoming him back into the house, once he is fit and well, and handing back the leadership to him.’

  Shouts of here, here echoed around the chamber. The Home Secretary sat down and shuffled his papers, nodding as he acknowledged the expressions of support.

  The leader of the opposition stood and waited for the noise to die down. ‘I would also like to express our wishes for a speedy recovery and a quick return to the house.’

  More cries of here, here accompanied the Home Secretary’s return to the despatch box. He checked his papers and cleared his throat. ‘It is with a heavy heart that I come to the House today. The security services have, this morning, briefed me on the evidence that has been gathered regarding the despicable attack on our democracy. It seems the perpetrator, Asil Balik, was part of a much larger conspiracy that appears to have had the backing of the Turkish government.’

  There were gasps of disbelief at the thought of a fellow NATO member being involved in such an atrocity. The Home Secretary held up his hand to quiet the chamber. ‘I have communicated with the Turkish Prime Minister and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that Her Majesty’s Government expect their full cooperation in catching the rest of the conspirators.’

  ‘Here, here.’

  ‘We have the full backing of the other members of NATO and I spoke with the President of the United States this morning. He has pledged their unconditional support.’

  ‘Here, here … here, here.’

  The Home Secretary nodded again and turned over his sheet of notes. ‘We must consider the possibility that the Turkish government will refuse to give up the other conspirators. In that situation, we, as a government, as a country, must bring these people to justice ourselves. The decision to send our brave men and women of the armed forces into harm’s way must never be taken lightly, but we believe it will be necessary to protect the citizens of the United Kingdom from further terror attacks. I will be having meetings in the coming days with the leaders of the other parties, and Her Majesty, in the hope that this can be concluded diplomatically. However, we must be ready in the event that military action is unavoidable.’

  ‘Here, here … here, here … here, here.’

  The Home Secretary sat back down, the House’s enthusiastic endorsement ringing in his ears. Outwardly, he looked grave and statesman-like, but on the inside he was laughing. Things couldn’t have gone better. He would be moving out of his relatively humble town house and into Downing Street, before the year was out.

  * * *

  William Darby had only been a member of parliament since the last election, two years ago. He was still, very much, learning the ropes. He had never imagined that he would have to vote on military action, on whether the country went to war. He still hadn’t decided which way he was going to vote. He didn’t consider himself to be a pacifist. If he was honest, he had never given it that much thought. A lot of the other back benchers were in favour of going to war, if it was necessary, and he was pretty sure a couple of them were in favour even if it wasn’t. He was more worried about his reputation and his career prospects. The front bench would see it as betrayal if he voted against them, but he didn’t want to be judged by future generations for committing the country to a disastrous, costly war. He had friends whose sons were in the military. How would he be able to look them in the face if something happened?

  His mind wasn’t on what he was doing as he sauntered down the road, briefcase in hand, towards the underground. He didn’t hear the gunfire and was never aware that he had been shot. He died instantly. He would never know about the other people who panicked and ran as he crumpled to the floor. He wouldn’t see the aftermath of the attack, the number of other people who were shot by the sniper in the next ten minutes. He wouldn’t see the news reports from the scene, or the families who suffered. William Darby was the first of many to die that day.

  Chapter 34

  They were all sitting in a black people carrier, parked behind a large hedge on the corner of the street. Sinclair and McGill were sitting together in the back. Nash sat in the driver’s seat with Luke Durand next to her. From where they were parked, they could just make out the van, and the house where Porter was being held. They had watched the van return, and the two men lead Porter back into the house, and decided to wait to see if the third henchman came back. As they heard the news of the Westminster shootings on the radio, heard about the loss of innocent life, they realised where the third man probably was.

  Sinclair was clenching her fists, seething. ‘When is this fucker going to s
top? How many people is he willing to kill to get what he wants?’

  Nash turned around. ‘Do you really think it’s the same guy that’s doing all of this?’

  Sinclair nodded. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind. You don’t know him like we do.’

  McGill put his hand on top of Sinclair’s. ‘Ali’s right. Vadim is trying to create fear on the streets. He’s trying to whip up the population so they’ll back his call to arms.’

  Nash spoke to Luke Durand. ‘Then we’d better do everything we can to stop him. Are you ready for this, Luke?’

  ‘Whatever you need, boss.’

  Luke Durand wasn’t the name he’d been born with, he hadn’t used that name for years. Not since his twenty-first birthday party, the night he had stabbed his stepfather to death. He’d always blamed him for his mother’s suicide, after the years of abuse she had suffered. Harry Nash senior had hidden him, got him a new passport and smuggled him out of the country, he would always owe him for that.

  Alone in a foreign country, and not knowing the language, there weren’t many jobs he could get. He’d begged, and worked as a labourer and a street trader, but never for long. He had to keep moving. It was the recruitment poster in Marseille that had convinced him to join the Foreign Legion. The training and service under a notoriously brutal regime had taught him a lot. He had learned to fight. Not just on the battlefield, but to protect himself from some of the other legionnaires. They were a brotherhood, but a violent one.

  After five years, and with his brand new French name and ID, he had travelled the world working as a mercenary and a bodyguard, but he’d never forgotten Nash’s kindness. Once he was back at home, battle weary and ready to settle for a more stable life, there was only one job he was interested in.

  Durand turned to McGill. ‘It’s your show, chief, just tell me where you want me.’

  McGill checked his weapon and put it back into his jacket. ‘We need you to walk up and knock on the front door. They won’t know who you are, it’ll give us the edge. We just need a distraction; give us some time so we can enter the house from the back.’