Shelley nodded. ‘Which probably means killing the guys who organise it.’
‘We need to tie up loose ends.’
Shelley barked a cynical laugh. ‘Well, yeah, of course. That’ll be in everybody’s interests, won’t it?’
‘I told you. The aim of this operation is to create a controlled explosion. A minimum of collateral damage.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll make contact if I can, but otherwise, forget about me and wait. My identity remains in place?’
‘Of course.’
‘How were you able to set that up without being logged?’
‘Well, that’s where your relatively advanced age comes in handy.’
Shelley shot him a look.
‘“Relatively”, I said. Anyway, what it means is that it’s a paper record. One from the pile marked “to be digitised”. Old school, you see.’
‘And the player’s wife? The one who alerted you to all of this?’
‘She’s being kept informed.’
‘Is she, indeed? Why do I get the impression she’s well connected?’
Claridge chuckled. ‘And why do I get the impression you did a little checking on me, before you embarked on this mission?’
‘Enough to find out who you studied with at Cambridge.’
‘Then you’ll know that in Sarah we have a strong ally.’
‘Okay. You tell her I’m close.’
Claridge nodded. ‘So what happens now?’
‘I don’t know. I’m hoping I’ll think of something.’
CHAPTER 10
THE HOME SECRETARY, Sarah Farmer, and her husband paid little attention to their television, even though it was on. Both were engrossed in other pursuits: Sarah was peering at papers spread on the coffee table in front of her, face bathed in the glowing light of her laptop screen; Kenneth was sprawled on the second sofa, his MacBook open, angled away from her.
‘Have you noticed we never actually watch anything any more?’ she said.
‘What was that, dear?’
‘We’re always working, looking at our computers. What is it that’s got your attention?’
His eyes appeared over the aluminium lid. Eyes she once knew well. Now she wondered if she ever knew Kenneth at all. If what Simon thought was true, she had married a monster.
‘Oh, nothing really,’ he said. ‘Nothing to interest you.’
‘It’s not hunting equipment again, is it?’ she said sternly, knowing it would be. Kenneth had taken to deleting his Internet history and was in the habit of finding an excuse to slap his MacBook shut whenever she could see it. But the other day she’d caught him looking at telescopic sights on his laptop, the way other men looked at porn. ‘I realise you had to give up hunting after I was elected, dear—’
‘Well, I had no choice,’ he scowled through an instant fog of resentment. ‘It wouldn’t have done for your public image, would it?’
‘And I’m very grateful. I hope the rewards have made it worthwhile.’
He acknowledged the point with a petulant frown.
‘So I hate to see you torturing yourself this way. Besides, it’s golf that keeps you busy now, isn’t it? You’ve been doing such a lot of that lately.’
She wondered if she sounded as disingenuous as she felt. Hunting equipment. God! She’d always known that her ascension to the post of Home Secretary would involve discovering some dark and unpalatable truths. She could never have imagined how repellent they were, or how close to home they would lie.
How ironic that she’d suspected him of an affair. Right now, she’d happily settle for that.
An instant-messaging bubble appeared on her laptop screen: ‘:-)’ sent by ‘SC’. Simon Claridge.
With a click of the trackpad she dismissed it and stood. ‘Tell you what,’ she said to Kenneth, trying to sound affectionate, ‘you look at hunting sites all you want.’
‘That’s very good of you, I must say, to allow me to look at the websites of my choice. Far be it from you to treat me like your personal puppet, eh?’
God, she thought. Who had taken the man she married and replaced him with this . . . person? If he was caught for this business, would he blame it on her – on her career?
With a heavy heart she stood. ‘I need to make a private call, Kenneth. State business.’
‘You have my blessing,’ he said sardonically as she left, closing the door behind her.
In the hallway, her protection officer scrambled to his feet, giving her a slight start. Even after two years in office, she still wasn’t accustomed to finding an armed man in her hallway.
She was assigned two protection officers and a driver. Simon had looked into the detail, but he had to admit that he had no idea who was tainted and who was not. Gut instinct told him that some were good men. Others he was less certain about, the one in her hallway being one of them.
‘Evening, ma’am.’
‘Evening, Harvey.’
‘I’m just going to use the phone in my office,’ she said.
‘It’s clear. I’ve just this second swept it,’ he told her.
She thanked him, stepped into her office and retrieved a mobile phone from her handbag on the desk. This was the phone she used for talking to Simon. Just Simon. She dialled him, so that he could bring her up to speed on any developments.
Meanwhile, outside in the hallway, the door to the lounge opened and the Home Secretary’s husband peered into the corridor. He caught the eye of the protection officer, gave him a nod and then disappeared back inside.
The protection officer moved to the office door. From his trouser pocket he produced a listening device that he suckered to the wood, adjusting his earpiece in order to hear one side of the Home Secretary’s conversation.
CHAPTER 11
IT WAS FOOLHARDY and went against his own instructions, but he couldn’t bear not hearing her voice. So, after ensuring he wasn’t being watched, he let himself into one of the last remaining working phone boxes in the whole of the United Kingdom and called her.
‘Hello,’ she said.
The stink of piss in the phone box was almost overwhelming, but the sound of her voice transported him home, and he bit back a surge of emotion.
‘Lucy,’ he said.
‘Oh, my God. Shelley, it’s you. Are you okay?’
‘It’s Afghanistan without the IEDs.’
‘That bad?’
‘And worse without you or Frankie. How are you both?’
‘I’m all right. Daytime, I’m trying to keep the business ticking over. I think this is the first time I’ve ever been glad of the lack of business. Evenings, I’m dividing my time between bouts of worrying about you, Game of Thrones and Frankie.’
He didn’t want to ask about the business. The sole upside of this whole venture was that he was temporarily released from worrying about the business. Then again, he realised with a jolt of shame, all that worry was now transferred to Lu.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I’m sorry to put you through all this.’
‘Just tell me it’s not out of guilt.’
‘It’s not out of guilt. It’s what’s right.’
‘Nothing to do with the fact that you think it could have been you in Cookie’s shoes?’
‘I told you, it’s—’
‘There are different sorts of guilt, Shelley. Guilt for something you did or didn’t do; guilt because you didn’t help someone. Survivor guilt; guilt because your wife chose you over your best friend.’
He squeezed the receiver tight. In the background their kitchen radio played.
‘He understood, you know,’ she said quietly. ‘He gave us his blessing.’
‘Do the same for me now, Lucy. Let me do this thing knowing I have your support.’
‘You don’t have to ask for it. It’s there, always. Do what you have to do. Just come back in one piece.’
CHAPTER 12
FOR THE NEXT two days Shelley stuck to Barron like glue. He was
n’t kidding when he told Claridge he didn’t have a plan, and time was wasting away.
Then, that morning, shortly before the centre was due to close for the day, his chance came.
Most of the night-time residents had shambled away. Among those last to leave was Shelley and the man he was shadowing, who throughout breakfast had been telling anybody unfortunate enough to be in the dining room that, ‘Today’s the day I’m going to earn some serious wonga.’
His announcement sent Shelley’s mind racing. Did that mean the hunt was today? Either way, he had to make his move.
The volunteer ushered out an ageing woman named Josie, who shuffled out of the door, muttering. Meanwhile, a venerable old Indian man they called Raj was gently roused from his sleep and invited to be on his way.
Barron still hadn’t moved. He sat at the table and made a show of licking his plate. Shelley decided to wait outside, so he shouldered his backpack and made his way to the street, where vehicles lined the pavements and warehouse conversions rose on both sides. Colin stood leaning on the bonnet of a parked car, arms folded. At the sight of Shelley he frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
Shelley jerked a thumb back at a shelter. ‘Slept there last night,’ he said.
Behind him, the door opened and Barron appeared, belongings in hand.
‘Aha,’ he rasped on seeing Colin, ‘my carriage awaits.’
The moment hung. Shelley opened his mouth, knowing he had to say something or forfeit his only chance to muscle in on Barron. But Colin spoke first and gave him just the opening he needed.
‘Here, Barron,’ leered Colin, ‘our friend here was trying to put you out of a job the other day, so he was.’
Barron’s smile faded as he looked across to Shelley. ‘Oh yeah? Funny, now you come to mention it, he’s been hanging round like a bad smell these past couple of days.’
The tinted window of a black people carrier parked on the other side of the street glided down noiselessly. In the passenger seat sat the snappy dresser Shelley had seen in the Ten Bells. He wore shades, his expression unreadable as he gazed across to where Barron was rounding on Shelley.
‘So what makes this one think he can take my job, hey?’ the bigger man was demanding to know.
Mouth split into a grin, Colin goaded him. ‘Says he’s a commando. Said something about how Royal Marines eat Paras for breakfast.’
‘Did he now?’ said Barron, pulling himself up to his full height and towering over Shelley, who didn’t budge. His hands were in his coat pockets and he flexed them surreptitiously, careful to keep his features blank.
‘I didn’t say that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t say Royal Marines eat Paras for breakfast.’
‘Good. You better not have, because—’
‘But it’s true. Royal Marines do eat Paras for breakfast.’
Colin chortled in appreciation. Framed in the window of the people carrier, the snappy dresser removed his sunglasses. An indignant Barron poked at Shelley, who allowed himself to be propelled back a few steps, using the opportunity to adjust his footing, withdrawing his hands from his pockets at the same time. His pulse quickened. His muscles bunched and tensed as Barron bore down on him, growling, ‘How about you put your money where your mouth is?’
The fight was on. But by coming close, Barron had sacrificed his only advantages – his height and reach – and when he threw a straight right, Shelley blocked it and responded with a left overhand punch, keeping his elbow bent and his chin tucked into his shoulder. Shelley felt Barron’s jaw crack.
Colin gave an impressed whistle. Meanwhile Barron regained his footing, wondering how he’d failed to make contact. His eyebrows knitted in confusion, his brow darkened with fury and he was drawing himself up, about to launch a second attack, when there came a whistle from the people carrier.
‘Does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?’ called the snappy dresser. His voice was neutral like that of Claridge. Another civil servant? Somebody high up in security?
From the way Barron assessed the new arrival, Shelley could tell it was the first time he’d clapped eyes on him, too. And that he instinctively realised this man was in charge.
‘This joker’s about to get a beating,’ Barron called back.
Colin, enjoying himself, pushed himself off the car and called back to his boss. ‘We’ve got a new contender for the position, guv,’ he said. ‘Bit of a cockfight going on about it.’
Barron reddened and went into damage limitation. ‘Wait a minute. Wait a fuckin’ minute – there’s no competition for the position here. All we have is a Marine with ideas above his station.’
The boss man called Colin over, they conferred and a moment later the rat-faced man jogged back. ‘Get in the car, both of you.’
Barron shot a searing look at Shelley, but the people carrier doors were opening and two identikit gym bunnies in black leather jackets were stepping out and making their presence felt. Shelley had history with men like that: shaved heads knew their way around a fight.
He and Barron were directed inside the car, sandwiched between the two heavies, who pointedly opened the windows to direct their noses outside. The snappy dresser turned to address Shelley. ‘Name?’
‘Hodges. Captain Steve Hodges.’
‘You know Krav Maga, I see.’
‘A little,’ replied Shelley. ‘I learned in the commandos.’
Barron sneered, but the boss man silenced him with a look and addressed Shelley again. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Hampshire,’ replied Shelley. It was Steve Hodges’ birthplace.
‘Regiment?’
Again he supplied the dead man’s details.
‘Commanding officer?’
Shelley gave the name, but the leader shrugged with a grin. ‘Well, I’ll have to take your word for that.’ He turned his attention to Barron. ‘What about you? Any martial arts up your sleeve?’
‘I kick arse, is what I do,’ snarled Barron in reply.
The leader grinned, then faced forward and indicated for the driver to move. ‘We’ll see about that in a moment or so, my friend,’ he said. ‘We’ll see about that.’
CHAPTER 13
DURING THE JOURNEY, the leader attended to his phone and Shelley guessed his details were being checked. Meanwhile, he decided that the two leather-jacketed bouncer types were twins. When they pulled up at an abandoned brewery warehouse, one had jumped out to haul open huge double doors. The people carrier drove inside and the doors were closed behind them.
Inside, what feeble light there was fell through broken windows onto a concrete floor strewn with litter and debris. Looking up, Shelley saw crumbling gantries, a mezzanine floor and walls daubed with graffiti. Water dripped through a huge gash in the roof high above them, and the slamming doors of the people carrier disturbed birds that panicked in the rafters.
Their voices echoed in the cavernous space as the four men led Shelley and Barron towards the pool of light more or less in the centre of the floor.
‘Bag,’ said the snappy dresser, holding out his hand for Shelley’s knapsack.
Before Shelley had embarked on the mission, Claridge had expressed surprise that he planned to go undercover without a single means of communication. Claridge had even suggested that they sew a mobile phone into the fabric of his knapsack. But as he watched his bag being expertly rifled by one of the twins, the search turning up nothing more incriminating than his sweater, a copy of the Daily Mirror and a bread bag containing a few crusts, Shelley was doubly glad he’d stuck to his guns.
‘Clean,’ said the twin, dropping Shelley’s bag to the ground.
The snappy dresser nodded and turned his attention to Shelley. ‘Right,’ he said in his neutral, civil-service tones, ‘I know all about Sergeant Barron here, but you’re a new contender, is that right?’
Barron bristled. One of the twins silenced him with an upraised finger and a practised bouncer’s stare.
Shelley nodded and the leader continued, ‘My na
me is Tremain. Colin here works for me, and I in turn work for an organisation that arranges what you might call “games”. Diversions, so that our client base can get away from their wives and let off a little steam at the weekends. We’re called The Quarry Company, and for our customers we represent an alternative – an alternative to golf, or motor-racing, or stuffing themselves into Lycra and clogging up country roads on their bicycles, or organising law-flouting fox hunts, or snorting coke off call girls. This is news to you as well, isn’t it, Sergeant Barron?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ snarled Barron. ‘Tell me what to do and when I can start, and let me get on with it.’
‘Well, that all depends on the outcome of this particular encounter.’
Once again Shelley sensed the indignation pouring off Barron and almost felt sorry for the man. Up until twenty minutes ago he’d been cock of the walk, anticipating a payday. Suddenly he was in danger of being usurped. True, he was a scumbag; it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. But even so, Shelley felt bad for him, especially knowing what he knew, which was that only one of them would be allowed to leave the warehouse alive. There were no winners or losers here, just two losers.
‘One of the most popular activities organised by The Quarry Company is a game based on the paintball model,’ Tremain was saying, ‘where we turn an experienced survivor loose in woodland terrain and our customers, bless their hearts, can experience the thrill of hunting human prey. Make no mistake: it’s proper sport. We encourage a visceral edge to the hunt.’
‘Is he allowed to fight back, this quarry?’ asked Barron, saving Shelley the trouble.
‘Indeed he is. The quarry’s objective is to survive. If he can reach a final flag, he wins himself a sizeable sum in addition to what we’re already paying him.’
‘And what are you paying?’ asked Barron.
‘Ten thousand,’ said Tremain. ‘Plus the same again if you can make it to the flag at the perimeter.’
‘So that’s it?’ Barron was unable to keep the excitement and greed out of his voice. ‘I just have to avoid getting shot with paint by a bunch of toffs, crack a couple across the jaw and collect my reward at the end of it?’