Several private studies demonstrated that if the courts were to deal with the punishment and deterrence of every criminal and terrorist organisation, the backlog would go on for over a decade. Meanwhile the financial damage perpetrated by these miscreants would have severely hampered the UK economically.
That’s where McQuillan’s unit came in.
The missions they carried out were highly sensitive: blackmail, extradition, enhanced interrogation and assassinations were among the methods used.
The Scotsman was observing the seated kidnapper through the one-way glass of the interview room. Hardcastle’s abductor seemed to be wearing an expression of mild boredom.
Bruce had half of Nick Flint’s team transfer the sniper to this converted farmhouse in the rural quiet of Hampshire. He’d developed several of these safe houses over the years. Nick Flint and the remainder of his team had taken Stephen Hardcastle to a similar one in the countryside of Shropshire. Money covertly seized from the offshore accounts of criminal kingpins had footed the bills over the years—McQuillan’s take on the police’s proceeds of crime initiative.
The man in the chair had been compliant as they processed him but refused to give his name. His photo was taken and forwarded to Bruce’s computer tech guy, who found a match within ten minutes. The hit had come through a MOD database which, amongst other things, had the captive’s Royal Marine military ID card on it. Bruce never asked how his guy gained access to these systems. He had read Connor Reed’s service record which included the citations from his two operational tours. He was impressed.
Something didn’t compute in Bruce’s mind.
Royal Marines were elite soldiers, but they were not Special Forces. They were given tasks within their fighting companies in a structured way. The eight-man Marine sections were not given nearly as much autonomy that a four-man Special Forces patrol would be. Although he was a sniper within the Marines— which was reputed to be one of the most difficult sniper courses in the world—it still didn’t rest well with McQuillan that the young Marine had the confidence to snatch Hardcastle alone. There had to be something else in his background that instilled in him such nerve. Bruce thought that the audacity to seize a high-ranking MP, assassinate three bodyguards and begin a violent interrogation alone was remarkable.
Connor sat in the sparse eight-foot square room and focused. His hands were bound separately with handcuffs to the armrests of the chair. He didn’t bother attempting a Houdini-like escape. Thoughts drifted back to the day that had set him down this path.
Nearly two months ago, he had visited the Scott family home in his native Leeds. At the time, Rayella was about to sit her ‘Eleven Plus’ exam, a prerequisite for entry into the local Grammar School. He had sat on the living room sofa opposite Mr Scott, who was reading a newspaper. Mrs Scott had set a cup of tea and a biscuit beside them both before perching on the armrest of Mr Scott’s chair.
“Do you want to sit down, Ann?” Connor had asked, shifting to one side despite there being plenty of room on the settee.
“It’s alright duck. I am going to get the tea on in a bit anyway.”
“Where’s Rayella?”
“In her room,” she’d huffed, and with her Yorkshire brogue raising a few octaves, “Really, the chuffing pressure they put these kids under to pass a flipping exam. She hasn’t come out of her room for weeks now and hardly talks when she does. I’ve told her it’s not the end of the world if she doesn’t pass.”
“If tha had mah way she wouldn’t be going there anyway,” piped up Mr Scott, snapping his newspaper on the sports page. “Bloody toffs up there.”
“She’s going there for a better education, so she doesn’t have to work her fingers to the bone, alright Paul?” she said irately.
Mr Scott just studied his paper more intently, and Connor hid a smile.
“I’ll go and have a word with her Ann.”
“Bless you, Connor, thank you.”
On arrival to her room Connor had knocked gently on the door, to be met by a shell of the usually vivacious Rayella. With her eyes red and puffed, he had instinctively known this was more than exam pressure.
“What’s up with you?” he asked in a gentle voice. He stepped into her room and closed the door.
She had just shrugged her shoulders. He’d reached out to coax her to look at him and had felt a jolt go through him as she flinched.
“Rayella, what’s wrong?” The concern had coursed through his voice. She’d looked at him with tears filling her eyes and shook her head.
“You can tell me anything, and I mean anything Rayella and no one has to know but me. Not if you don’t want to, though.” He was desperate to find out what was causing her this pain. After a few moments, she nodded her head and sat on the edge of her bed. Connor sat on the other end giving her space and waited.
“A man…,” she paused, and he’d felt his stomach lurch, “…under my…my knickers and my top…a man touched meh,” and the tears had gushed down her face.
Connor had heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and the room seemed to spin. He took a few moments to compose himself.
“Can I give you a cuddle?” he croaked.
Rayella had silently nodded her head, and he wrapped an arm around her. He held her for a while waiting for the numbness he felt to wear off. When it did, his concern for her kept switching to a cold rage towards the perpetrator and back again. He felt her arms haltingly thread around his torso, and he waited until she’d calmed.
“Who is he?” he’d asked softly.
Her voice continually wavered and stuttered throughout her answer, “…he were from the Government….a member of Parliame-me-ment….he were visiting the school…I…I cut my finger, and he said he’d plasters in the car…”, she began to cry again.
Connor had breathed deeply. “What was his name?”
“Mr Hardcastle”
“What’s the plan with him by there, Boss?” Kevin Anderson asked Bruce, referring to Connor. They stood in a small office-like room within the safe house. Kevin’s strong welsh accent was still evident when not around strangers—although he refrained from calling Bruce ‘Bud’. Bruce found his own accent coming through when around Kevin, who had worked with Bruce for six years now.
“I am going to speak with him,” he answered, “we’ve nae time to wait for a full intel report to be worked up.”
“Who do you think he works for?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t believe he works for anyone.”
“OK…Do we know anything about him, Boss?”
“Only this. It’s from his military administration login,” answered Bruce, holding up the thin folder—it contained no more than twelve pages, “Royal Marine. Two tours of Afghanistan. Impressive citations from both. Service record marred by discipline issues. He’s from Leeds, his Maw’s name is Rebecca Reed, and her address is listed as his home address. Nothing has come back yet with regards to his Dad’. That is pretty much it.”
“Not tidy darts is it?” said Kevin, using the Welsh colloquialism for ‘not good’.
Bruce shook his head while looking at the bulging intelligence folder on Hardcastle. It didn’t have any markings on the cover as per his unit’s standard procedure.
“Kevin, there’s a label maker in the bottom of the filing cabinet behind you. Get it out for me please.”
“You have a plan?”
“Aye,” said Bruce, “just because we don’t know much about him yet, he doesn’t have to know that.”
Connor thought of the girl he’d arranged to see. He’d rescheduled their date for after his encounter with Stephen Hardcastle. He found himself wishing that he’d brought the date forward in light of his now uncertain future. One last shag would have been good —he thought—especially as I now expect to spend at least a significant portion of my life behind bars.
He thought of the mistakes he’d made in executing his plan. It led to him playing what he called the ‘What-if?’ game. He quickly
put a stop to it; he wouldn’t let his mind wander into fear or a sense of hopelessness, particularly when he was in such a precarious situation. The mind, he knew, was the most powerful thing he owned, and was the only thing that couldn’t be taken from him while he was still alive.
He knew these people were not any type of law enforcement agency—no rights had been read out, and he had been hooded almost immediately after being grabbed. If he had to guess, he would have surmised it was MI5 and that they’d had Hardcastle under surveillance. They would have followed him when he took the politician. The other possibilities were that it was a criminal or extremist group. Connor thought he knew what the lesser of the two evils would be.
He switched his focus back to pussy.
Bruce opened the door and met Connor Reed’s impassive expression. He noted the symmetrical features emphasising a masculine face. The eyes were shark-like with no anger, fear or challenge; not dull, nor were they particularly enquiring, but they stared at him with a blunt candour.
Bruce placed the full file labelled with Reed’s name and date of birth on the table in front of him. He caught the flick of the eyes to it. Stepping around the table he took off both the handcuffs that were anchoring Reed’s wrists.
Then he sat across from him and met his eyes.
“Why did you do it?” McQuillan asked. He watched Reed intently.
After a few moments, the marine spoke, “He’s a paedophile. He abused someone close to me.”
“You have proof of this?” Bruce asked inquiringly.
“I didn’t need any, but I am sure you have.”
Bruce suppressed a look of surprise—How would he know if I have evidence of Hardcastle’s paedophilia or not?
“The sniper rifle—did you steal it from the armourer or did you pay him?”
“I am not saying anything else until I know who you are and what organisation you belong to.”
The Scotsman sighed, “Without wishing to sound cliché, I am either your best friend or your worst enemy lad. I already know all about you, Connor. That you’re a Royal Marine on leave. That your mother Rebecca lives in a lovely semi-detached house in the upmarket Roundhay area of Leeds. The amount of evidence we possess of your double murder with the kidnap and torture of an MP makes the extraction of a confession barely worth the bother. So please, just answer the questions.”
There was a barely noticeable twitch in the Yorkshireman’s face, and after a few moments, he replied, “He was gobbing off about it in the pub, so I stole it from the boot of his car. Didn’t even have to jimmy the lock, just took the div’s keys from his jacket when he went to the heads. Security isn’t a dirty word you know.”
‘Heads’, Bruce knew, was the Navy slang for toilets.
Bruce knew he wasn’t lying—he had no reason to. The older man stopped himself from asking how he knew they had evidence of Hardcastle’s misdeeds. He must have worked out they’d the MP under surveillance.
“What about the two bodyguards? Why did they need to be killed?” McQuillan’s tone was inquisitive rather than accusatory.
“Those cretins had been protecting him day and night for three years. No way he could have hid what he was from ‘em, and that made them a party to it,” Connor said, “and not that it matters now, but they would have been witnesses.”
It was in that moment that Bruce made his decision. He wanted to know more. The low hum of the extractor fan prevented silence for a few moments.
“So, you orchestrated this entirely alone?” asked Bruce.
“Yes, at what point would I have needed other people?”
Bruce nodded, and asked, “Why torture him? Surely it would have been less risky just to kill him from the off.”
Connor looked at him before answering, “Look, people die all the fucking time whether they are good or bad. They get hit by buses, and kids get Leukaemia. Why did that cunt deserve a quick death? It was worth the risk to bring justice to him.”
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked watching the Marine carefully.
“Yeah,” Connor answered laconically with a shrug of his shoulders.
“You ever heard of the notion that this is a reciprocal universe?”
“Is this the part where you tell me that violence begets violence, and if you live by the sword you’ll die by the sword? That sort of thing?”
“Something like that, aye.”
“I’ll be sure to swap notes on that theory with Martin Luther King and Gandhi if I get the chance.”
McQuillan paused and thought better of getting into a debate.
He took a calculated risk and held up the folder. “Sometimes your temper might have bled into other areas?”
After a few moments, Connor nodded slightly in what looked to be mild admittance.
“You’re right, though, he was an abuser of young girls, probably for decades. You’re also correct to assume that his wee security detail was party to it. They enabled it to happen, in fact, and that’s why we’ve dealt with the other two.” He shook his head perceptibly before continuing “Stephen Hardcastle is corrupt, with millions embezzled in off-shore accounts from selling sensitive information. We had him under surveillance to see how far his corruption went. We wanted to know who his contacts and co-conspirators were. Then you came along and threw a spanner in the works—still, no plan survives contact. We’ll just have to improvise.”
“We’ll?” Connor said, sounding surprised.
“Yes, you’ll work for me. Your other option is to refuse, in which case your future looks bleak, given that you have murdered two men and mutilated a high-ranking politician.”
“I am not ashamed of what I have done,” said Connor looking him in the eye, “If there’s a trial, then so be it.”
“You already know there wouldn’t be a trial.”
The words, tinged with the Glaswegian dialect, hung in the air. He studied Reed’s reaction intently.
“How long would this arrangement go on for?” Connor asked.
“Indefinitely.”
“Help you cut deals with beasts for the greater good?” came the derision-laced reply, “I mean, it’s the sale of information that you people are bothered about, not the fact these girls he’s molested will be traumatised and affected their entire lives?”
“Hold that thought until Monday. See if you feel the same way.”
A spell of silence passed before Connor asked, “Do I get paid?”
“No lad, you’ll have to steal your food and report to the Salvation Army between jobs,” Bruce replied.
Connor’s lips started to curve upwards before straightening, “You almost had your first career laugh off me.”
“Career laugh?”
“Never mind. How much do I get paid?”
“You’ll get paid well.”
Connor didn’t say anything.
“Are you in or are you out?” asked Bruce.
“In.”
Nick finally climbed into the passenger seat of the van, his brain screaming for sleep. The capturing of Hardcastle, and the kidnapper, alive without any harm coming to his men had shot elation through his insides. This euphoria and the left over adrenaline had kept him sharp throughout the sanitizing of evidence at both the warehouse and the manor.
The bodies and any significant parts were stuffed into body bags and piled in the van. The surveillance devices were removed, and the blood stains doused with cola taken from the kitchen. It was the best he could have done under the circumstances, he thought. McQuillan would send a fully equipped clean up team in the morning.
“Where to Boss?” asked the driver.
“We’re gonna have to use Hackworth Hall Dan, can’t use the regulars to get rid of these,” answered Nick in his Salford drawl, referring to the bodies.
Hackworth Hall was a disused farming estate that McQuillan had profiteered for a safe house in Shropshire. It was nearest of two that had an incinerator installed.
“I am gun’neh to get my head down, or I’ll be scrikin
’.” said Nick
“No dramas.”
He leant his folded arms on the dashboard and rested his head on them. The thrum of the engine sent him off to slumber immediately.
5
Thames House stood regally on the north bank of the River Thames. The paleness of the grey stonework made the seven-floor structure appear white at a distance. The windows, large enough to fit bears through, were crisscrossed with white bars. The two statues of St. George and a Britannia figure, stood either side of the grand archway entrance. Viewing the structure in its entirety, gave the building the appearance of being undecided whether to be a Cathedral or a prison. It was neither. It was the headquarters of MI5 and had been since 1994.
Within one of the soundproofed offices on the seventh floor, two men were in discussion.
“Absolutely not, that’s a preposterous thing to even suggest,” exclaimed Roger Stanton, across his desk to Bruce, his public-school boy accent emphasising his disapproval.
The Director General of MI5 was of medium height, with his black hair beginning to crown. His expensive dark suit contoured his frame well. Still reasonably trim given his fifty-four years and the sedentary nature of his profession. A large pointed nose sat on his round face—Bruce thought he’d a look of The Penguin from the 1989 Batman film.
The office was sparse, with the mahogany desk as the centrepiece. A few expensive looking paintings of ships and woodland adorned the walls. They almost compensated for the lack of a window. There were no personal photographs of family.
“There would be far too many loose ends to tie up with his current unit and his family,” Stanton muttered, “and how did he get hold of a damn sniper rifle in the first place?”
“The serial number matches that of an L115A3 sniper rifle, allegedly stolen from an Army vehicle as they were transporting it down to Warminster for repairs. Report states it to be stolen at a service station en route.”
The Bootneck Page 3
