by Jack Gatland
The Last Chance Saloon was, for all intents and purposes, ended.
There was a tap on her shoulder, removing her from this melancholy train of thought, and Anjli looked around to see a smiling Billy Fitzwarren, still wearing his trademark three piece Saville Row tweed suit. Although he was effectively disowned by his family, Billy still came from money, and you could see it simply by looking at him from the expensive and trendy haircut his blond head had, to the watch on his arm. Anjli, with her black hair pulled back and her off-the-shelf, store-bought grey suit, cheap and misshapen, felt very poor when standing beside him.
‘They let you in yet?’ he asked. Anjli shrugged.
‘Haven’t even tried, to be honest,’ she replied. ‘Feels a bit ghoulish, you know?’
Billy nodded, looking up at the construction workers, currently walking along the scaffold gantries. ‘Any hot ones up there?’ he enquired with a cheeky grin. Anjli sighed, linking arms with Billy and guiding him towards the exit. And a nearby wine bar they both knew.
‘Your libido will get you into trouble one day,’ she muttered as, looking back to the contractors, Billy protested feebly.
Neither of them saw the man across the courtyard, leaning on his cane, stroking his short, white beard as he watched them leave.
DCI Alexander Monroe knew that he should have gone to them, spoken to them, seen how they were doing, but it would just start more conversations on how he was, what he intended to do, whether there were proceedings about to occur, and how they could help him. And the fact of the matter was that Monroe didn’t know any of this. He didn’t even know if he wanted to stay in the force. There was a certain convenience in letting himself be invalided out to take an early retirement.
He’d never be attacked again.
He’d never be drugged or face death again.
Taking a deep breath to shake away the sudden memories that crashed into his thoughts, DCI Monroe turned and slowly limped back out of Temple Inn.
He could always speak to Billy and Anjli next time.
Yes.
Next time.
The drive back to Hurley was far comfier than the one there; this was because Marlowe’s usual car was a black BMW i8 Coupe, and he drove it with the skill of a man that not only knew how to drive a car well but also knew how to fit in with the surrounding cars; which meant that the drive was quick, yet safe.
‘How did you work for Wintergreen?’ Declan asked as they cruised along the middle lane of the M4. ‘Or is that, you know, classified and all that?’
‘It’s classified,’ Marlowe replied. ‘But, as she trusts you, I trust you. Ask what you want.’
Declan wondered which she Marlowe mentioned, whether it was Wintergreen or Trix that he spoke of, but he left that for the moment. ‘Same question then.’
‘I was a Royal Marine,’ Marlowe replied. ‘Went for SAS selection, but didn’t get in.’
‘I thought all spooks were ex-SAS trained and all that?’ Declan asked.
Marlowe grinned.
‘Oh, I’m SAS trained, I just never joined their ranks,’ he replied. ‘Did a few special ops with them, eventually moved into the Secret Service. Did a year in Vauxhall, utterly hated it. It was all James Bond wannabes and filing cabinets. Wintergreen turned up on one mission, we had mutual friends and after that she met me for a pint. Gave me the hard sell.’
Declan chuckled. ‘Monroe did the same thing when he recruited me.’ He changed subject. ‘Trix said that Wintergreen was running a similar thing to the Last Chance Saloon when she visited me,’ Declan looked out at the motorway. ‘Was it your last chance too?’
Marlowe nodded. ‘She saw it frustrated me, she knew I had strikes against me. Did Trix tell you what we’re called?’
Declan shook his head. ‘Just that you work for Charles Baker.’
‘Sometimes,’ Marlowe confirmed. ‘Usually it’s more the suits in Whitehall. We’re known as Section D.’
‘As in D-Notice?’
‘You know the term?’
‘I was in the Special Investigations Service. Military Police,’ Declan explained. ‘We had our share of targets who had D-Notices slapped on them, stopping the public from seeing the crimes.’
‘That’s an old term,’ Marlowe replied. ‘These days it’s a DSMA Notice. Stands for Defence and Security Media Advisory Notice.’
‘So it’s not that then?’
Marlowe grinned. ‘No. It’s for Disavowed.’ He indicated left, moving into the slow lane in preparation to turning off at the upcoming junction. ‘Wintergreen takes the misfit toys and makes her own little play set out of them.’
He glanced at Declan.
‘You know, she was going to come for you,’ he said. ‘After you punched that priest. She called your old man, asked if he’d be okay with you swapping badges.’
‘And he said?’
‘She never told me,’ Marlowe watched the road as he spoke. ‘Monroe recruited you and she lost interest. She does that. Hey, how did you deal with Trix?’
‘What do you mean?’ The question slightly threw Declan. Marlowe glanced over.
‘She does my head in,’ he admitted. ‘Bloody girl won’t shut up.’
‘Wasn’t my experience with her,’ Declan replied with a smile. ‘Maybe she’s got a crush on you.’
‘Well, she’s only human,’ Marlowe sighed mournfully. ‘It’s a curse.’
Declan laughed. He liked Marlowe and found him easy to talk to. But he wondered how much of this was the spook training, the ability to make anyone feel at home.
‘Will she really send me the contents of the USB when she opens it?’ He asked. Marlowe didn’t answer immediately.
‘If she doesn’t, I will,’ he eventually promised. ‘I don’t like it when people don’t keep their word.’
‘Is that a thing with her?’ Declan turned to face Marlowe, trying to garner anything from his micro expressions, but the driver stared expressionless.
‘Here we go,’ he said as they turned left, off the A404. Declan looked to the right, past Marlowe and out of the driver’s window. They were on the Henley Road now, the open driveway of the Temple Golf Club passing on the right as they carried on north. Declan wondered whether it was worth stopping now, having a look at the murder scene while there was still light, but there was a voice at the back of his head that suggested that this wasn’t a good idea. He knew how pissed he’d be if a rival detective encroached on his patch. No, he’d contact DCI Freeman in the morning, see what he could find out. Tonight would be an early night. What with the funeral, the confrontation with Peter Taylor at Kendis’ graveside, the abduction and consequent return from London, he was wiped out. All he wanted was a takeout and his bed.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen.
As the car pulled off the High Street into the small housing estate where Patrick Walsh, and now Declan lived, he saw that his living room light was on. It hadn’t been when he left for the funeral earlier that day.
Marlowe had also seen this as he pulled up across the road.
‘Problem?’ he asked, nodding towards the window. ‘You expecting guests?’
‘I wasn’t,’ Declan unclipped the seatbelt. ‘But to be honest, only a couple of people have a key.’
‘Just because the light’s on, doesn’t mean they came in through the front door.’ Marlowe was already shifting, and Declan knew that somewhere on his person was a gun, likely a Glock 17 or similar.
Bloody spies and their toys.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Declan opened the door, exiting the car. ‘If there’s a problem, you’ll know soon enough.’
He was about to continue when the door to his house opened, and a woman emerged.
No, not a woman. A girl, on the cusp of becoming a woman. Fifteen years, coming on sixteen, and as far as Declan was concerned ten years older than she should be. Her hair was jet black; last time he’d seen her, it had been blue. Or red, he couldn’t keep track now.
‘Dad!’ She
exclaimed, coming out to meet Declan, grabbing him in a wide embrace, but peering into the car as she did so. ‘Who’s that? He’s cute. Is he coming in?’
‘He’s leaving,’ Declan nodded to Marlowe and closed the car door. Before they’d even stepped away, the BMW i8 had already accelerated off, Marlowe on his way back to London. Watching the car retreat into the distance, Declan looked back to his daughter.
‘What are you doing here, Jess?’ he asked. ‘Last I heard, you weren’t happy with me.’
‘Yeah,’ Jess replied as they walked back to the house. ‘It annoyed me that we had to go into hiding because of you. But then I realised I was being petty, and that you’d had a way worse time than me, and I should give you the benefit of the doubt.’
Declan stopped in the driveway, staring at his daughter for a moment.
‘Your mum sent you here, didn’t she?’
Jessica Walsh grinned widely. ‘She wanted to make sure you’re doing okay, now you’re, like, suspended all over again,’ she walked into the house now, Declan following. ‘And between us, I think she wanted some alone time, you know?’
Declan went to ask what Jess meant by that, but then remembered that only a week ago, Lizzie had mentioned to Declan that she was looking to date again. Considering what had happened between Declan and Kendis, he couldn’t really be angry at this development.
‘How long do I have you for?’ he asked as he pulled off his jacket, tossing it on a chair as he walked into the kitchen. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘I brought my own,’ Jess followed him in. ‘Matcha green with oat milk.’
Declan shuddered, and Jess smiled. ‘Wait until you try my bulletproof coffee.’
‘I don’t know what that means, and have no intention of learning,’ Declan solemnly informed. ‘Again, how long are you here for?’
‘A week if you’ll have me?’ Jess filled the kettle. ‘We can work on granddad’s crime board. Oh, and Mister Schnitter came by to make sure you were okay after the funeral? I didn’t even realise it was today.’
Declan stopped at the fridge.
‘Did he say anything else?’
Jess shrugged as she took a half teaspoon of green tea, placing it into a metal bottle with a whisk on the end of the cap. ‘Not really, just that he’d catch you later. Why, is there a problem?’
Declan looked back to Jess. ‘Do me a favour,’ he replied, his face calm, but his voice obviously forced. ‘If you see him, keep away. Just for the moment. I need to speak to someone tomorrow, and then we’ll discuss that.’
Jess stopped now, watching her father.
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ she asked. ‘And is it something to do with the cute guy in the cool car?’
‘I’m your father, kiddo,’ Declan forced a smile now. ‘There’s a ton of stuff I’m not telling you. But first I need to check granddad’s study for some files. And after I make a call tomorrow, I’ll tell you everything.’ He looked to the sideboard as a realisation struck him. ‘I almost forgot,’ he continued. ‘I was going to give it to you when I saw you next, but I got your phone back. The one Frost stole.’
‘That’s okay, dad,’ Jess replied. ‘I have a new one now.’
‘I know,’ Declan walked over to the sideboard. ‘It’s just that you might have some photos on here that—‘
‘I said that’s okay!’ Jess shouted. Declan turned to his daughter, seeing her visibly shaken.
‘It’s…’ Jess couldn’t find the words. ‘It’s just that he stole my bag, dad. I didn’t even realise he was there. He… he could have taken me. I could have been killed.’
Declan nodded. He knew what Jess was feeling; a form of survivors’ guilt.
‘I thought you’d died,’ he whispered. ‘Your mum didn’t call, and then Frost phoned me from the number. I couldn’t breathe. The world was ending. It was only your mum phoning later that saved me from doing something rash.’
He walked over to Jess, holding her tight.
‘He took out both me and Monroe when we weren’t expecting it,’ he admitted. ‘But he’s dead now. He’s dead and he won’t be coming back.’
‘You promise?’ Jess looked up at her father, eyes brimming with fearful tears. Declan nodded, holding her even tighter.
‘I promise,’ he said and, as he spoke, he felt his own bottled up emotions burst out. The anger at Kendis’s death, the devastation at losing her, the frustrations of the closure of Temple Inn, the uncertainty of Monroe, all of these fears and worries came forth in a stream and, as Jess cried into his chest, Declan wept silently into her shoulder.
And then the moment was over.
Smiling faintly, wiping an eye, he looked down at her.
‘Chinese or Pizza?’ he asked. Because tonight was going to be a father and daughter night. A night of fast food and cheesy film watching.
He could start hunting serial killers tomorrow.
4
The Thin Blue Line
Anjli had started her career at Mile End Command Unit, but she never expected to end it there. Walking back into the office, she was unsurprised to find the place half empty; there was always something happening around here, and there were always officers walking in or out, finishing up or starting on the next big problem that had landed on the doorstep.
The last time Anjli had worked here though, it had been DCI Ford who controlled the teams; now she was gone, drummed out of the force on conspiracy to fraud, attempted murder and a ton of other charges. She’d always been a degenerate gambler, in hock to a variety of criminal empires including The Twins, Johnny and Jackie Lucas, who ran the East End like it was their personal playground, and when everything came crashing down around her, primarily because of Declan Walsh before he even met Anjli, the powers-that-be in the Met had attacked this with a ‘clean sweep’ and ‘new broom’ mentality. Everyone had been assessed, and either moved up, moved on or moved out. The only reason that Anjli hadn’t been caught up in this was because she’d already left by that point, joining Alexander Monroe after she beat the living crap out of a wife beater with links to the Twins.
And now she was back here. Like she’d never left.
A middle-aged man, tall, lean and dark-skinned with his black hair parted on the right, while at the same time left to its own devices, leaned out of the door to his office.
‘Oh, you do work here,’ he muttered before popping back into his office. Anjli sighed. DCI Esposito was a good detective, and definitely the one to clean up the shit that had been left for him, but he was also a pain in the neck jobsworth. Walking to the office, she leaned in.
‘Sorry Guv, just meeting an old colleague for lunch, and then spent the afternoon patrolling my new area, getting a feel for it,’ she explained. Esposito didn’t look up from his computer screen.
‘Crime doesn’t take lunch breaks,’ he replied. ‘Crime waits for detectives to take lunch breaks and then strikes.’
‘Did anything happen while I was out?’ Anjli asked, looking back into the office. It didn’t seem like anything big was going on out there.
‘No, but it could have.’
Anjli grinned. ‘Maybe crime took a lunch break today then, Guv.’
Esposito looked up from the monitor. ‘Sass, DS Kapoor? I don’t know how things were when you were at Monroe’s kindergarten, but here we work professionally. We don’t go out on wild adventures, or play out hunches, regardless of the consequences.’
‘No, Guv.’
Esposito sighed. ‘Go down to Victoria Park,’ he ordered. ‘There’s been a spate of vandalism there. See if you can’t nip it in the bud.’
‘Surely that’s a uniform job?’ Anjli groaned inwardly at this the moment she spoke. She knew she’d said the wrong thing even before Esposito rose from the chair.
‘If you’d prefer to be in a uniform when you do it, Miss Kapoor, I’m sure that can be arranged,’ he snapped.
Anjli nodded.
‘Very good, sir, I’ll go right away, sir.’
Anj
li left the office of DCI Esposito and without even stopping at her desk, she continued out of the office and out into the late Mile End afternoon. Feeling the sun on her face, she fought back the urge to scream. Most of her lunch with Billy had been complaints about this new secondment, and she’d spent the last couple of hours trying to find reasons not to return. She wanted nothing more than to leave, to return to Temple Inn and the insanity that she’d gotten used to.
But the more she thought about it, the more she realised things would never be the same again. And if she stayed at Mile End, she’d end up killing someone.
Maybe it was time to consider alternate careers.
For the last seven years, Alexander Monroe had lived in a small detached house in Bexleyheath. It wasn’t much, as police salaries were never that high, but he was alone in it, and had all the space that he needed. Besides, he spent more time in the office than at home, so in effect it was nothing more than a posh and more lived in hotel room; a place where Monroe would return only to eat, watch TV and sleep.
Although there hadn’t been a lot of sleeping recently. The nightmares saw to that.
It had been a week since DI Frost had tried to murder him. A week, more to the point, since DI White drugged him in Birmingham, and he’d been dragged to a manor house in the middle of nowhere and tied to a pillar, expecting to be executed by an insane gang lord. To be brutally honest about this, it hadn’t been the best of weeks. And the days that had followed hadn’t been kind either. He still suffered from migraines connected to the head wound he’d received at Temple Inn, and he hadn’t slept over three hours in a night since then either.
