Hunted: BookShots (7 page)

Sir Eric swelled with pride. Attaining the experience points needed to rise to Gold Club status with the Company had been a high point of his life so far.

‘Well, I must say I’m honoured to be considered a part of the enterprise,’ he replied. He was simpering a little, he realised, but then again it couldn’t hurt to keep on their good side.

‘And we’re grateful for your custom, Sir Eric. Our coming event is planned for the weekend after next. How does that sound?’

‘I shall need to consult my diary,’ replied the Under-Secretary, knowing his decision already: whatever was diarised for that day would have to be rearranged.

‘Of course, sir. Shall we say fifteen hundred hours for your second call?’

‘I’ll have an answer for you by then.’

‘And, as is the usual procedure, a bid, too, if you please.’

‘Certainly.’

‘It’s likely to be our last hunt of the season, Sir Eric; we intend to lay on some superb entertainment afterwards. Entertainment of a very willing and Russian persuasion. As you can imagine, we’re anticipating a lot of interest from Gold Club members. Bidding begins at a minimum of three million, I’m afraid.’

Appleby took a large intake of breath.

‘As ever, you have one opportunity to register your bid,’ continued Curtis. ‘Only winning bids will be notified. All notifications to be made by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow.’

‘Perfect. I shall make myself available at three.’

‘Good speaking to you, Sir Eric.’

Financial-recruitment specialist Stuart Cowie was carrying an ancient, brick-sized mobile phone to a
Wolf of Wall Street
fancy-dress screening when his phone – his regular phone – rang.

Excited at the ID that flashed up on the screen, he answered quickly and then gave his name and voiceprint password, ‘Jerusalem’.

‘No,’ he said, when his caller had finished speaking, ‘you don’t have to ring later, Mr Boyd. My answer is yes and my bid is four.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

‘Hello?’ prompted Cowie.

‘We usually prefer our clients to consider bids and availability more carefully. These things really shouldn’t be rushed, Mr Cowie.’

Emboldened by the line of coke he’d snorted from his desktop not twenty minutes ago, Cowie was excited; his blood was up. ‘Make it five, then,’ he said rashly.

‘Thank you, Mr Cowie. You will be informed whether or not your bid has been successful by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow.’

‘At five million quid, it better bloody well be accepted,’ spluttered Cowie.

In the five-star Chiltern Firehouse, the German CEO of the defence company Diamond & Perry, Daniel Kiehl, was lunching with city lawyer Sebastian Bramwell.

Bramwell’s phone trilled and, after shooting an apologetic look at Kiehl, he took the call. Listening, he said, ‘Bramwell. Shortcut,’ and then the number three. He ended the call, avoiding Kiehl’s gaze as he replaced the phone on the tabletop and then resumed his conversation.

Nothing passed between the two men until, suddenly, Kiehl’s own phone rang and, with an apology to Bramwell, he answered.

‘Kiehl. Retinue,’ he said, and at that Bramwell gave a start, staring across the table at his dining companion, suddenly aware of what Kiehl had also just realised: they were both Quarry Company clients.

‘Four,’ said Kiehl, with a ‘what can you do?’ shrug for Bramwell.

The lawyer fumed.

Later, as their meal drew to an end, Kiehl’s phone rang once more. Ignoring Bramwell’s searching look, he answered,
passing voiceprint ID again. Bramwell bared his teeth in frustration, peering at his own phone as though willing it to ring with the good news. His misery was complete when Kiehl said, ‘Thank you, Mr Curtis,’ and ended the call.

‘Next time, Bramwell, perhaps you will be fortunate,’ said Kiehl.

In the home of Sarah Farmer, the Home Secretary watched with interest as her husband left the room to take a call.

When he returned he was in an ebullient mood, kissing the top of her head before sitting back on the sofa and burying himself in his MacBook.

She churned with helplessness, hatred, disgust and fear.

SHELLEY WASN’T SURE
whether he’d woken up or regained consciousness, but either way he found himself lying on a comfortable bed between clean and crisp sheets, in a room that was bright and smelled fresh.

He was wearing white boxers, not his own, but otherwise was just as he had been the day before. Whoever had gone to the trouble of changing his underwear had obviously stopped short of giving him a bath into the bargain. Very sensible. Hanging from the handle of a built-in wardrobe opposite the end of the bed was a faded blue set of overalls, and on the carpet stood a new pair of Dr Martens boots. Those he guessed would be his uniform for the duration of his employment with The Quarry Company.

So this was it
, he thought, pulling himself out of bed. This was where they brought the quarry ahead of the hunt. No doubt where they’d brought Cookie. According to the autopsy report, there had been no ethyl glucuronide in Cookie’s system, which meant no alcohol. And by Shelley’s reckoning, that indicated Cookie was dry for at least three days before he was killed, maybe four.

Three days of eating steak and drying out. The equivalent of fattening the goose for Christmas.

He found the bathroom. Again, it was clean and bright, the fittings virtually new. Then he explored the rest of what turned out to be a small but well-appointed one-bedroom apartment. He came to the conclusion that he was being kept (and to what extent he was being ‘kept’, he wasn’t yet sure) in an old holiday-camp chalet, complete with small dining area, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom.

He peered out of the front window. Opposite were the grey, dilapidated buildings of what he took to be other chalets, complete with smashed windows, graffiti tags and guttering that hung off at angles. Most surprising was the contrast of outside to inside. When he opened the front door he saw that the exterior of the door was as neglected as those opposite. The inside? Like a show home.

Somebody had gone to an awful lot of trouble here.

He heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. Alerted perhaps? He scanned the living area and saw a smoke detector in the ceiling. Camera in there, probably. Somewhere there were people watching his every move. And now they were coming for him.

Had it begun? Was this it? Whatever they used to knock him out would still be in his system. If it came to a fight, his reaction time would be reduced. His cognitive abilities diminished.

Otherwise he was ready for them. No, not quite ready. He returned to the bedroom and pulled on the overalls.
Now
he was ready.

Footsteps on the walkway outside came closer. Then there was a knock at the door.

‘Captain Hodges?’ came a female voice. ‘Captain Hodges, are you decent?’

‘I think you know very well I’m decent,’ he said.

‘May I come in?’

‘Of course.’

She stepped in from the walkway outside. She carried a small suitcase and wore hospital whites, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She was younger than him, maybe mid-thirties, and beautiful, with dark hair slightly greying at the temples framing a heart-shaped face and full lips, which he soon learned were in the habit of breaking out into a wide, impish smile.

‘I’m Claire,’ she said, in a polished, privately educated voice. ‘I suppose you might say I’m your superintendent, care officer, concierge and private nurse all in one.’ Her eyes sparkled at ‘private nurse’ and he wondered if she was consciously flirting. If she even knew she was doing it.

Let’s find out.

‘Were you the one who changed my underwear?’

‘Ah, now that would be telling,’ she grinned, and he decided that she knew she was flirting. She was accustomed to being desired, and revelled in it.

She placed her briefcase on the coffee table and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘You’ve worked out that we have you under surveillance, then?’ she said.

‘Yes. Why do you need to do that?’

‘Don’t they tell you these things?’ she said, with mock irritation. ‘They really should, you know. You’re the prize in a
high-stakes game and your identity is closely guarded, your whereabouts a secret. The only thing our players know about you is that you’re a Royal Marine commando. Thus we have to make sure you’re kept free from any interference or communication.

We don’t want to give any of the players an advantage now, do we?’

‘It’s a competition?’ asked Shelley.

‘Bloody hell, I’m going to have to have a word with Tremain – he really didn’t tell you anything, did he? Yes, of course it’s a competition, with quite a purse for the winner. Mr Miyake is the current holder, but there’s a few who will be hoping to claim his title.’

‘Where does all this take place? Here?’

‘No, in the woods somewhere. I trust you’re an outdoorsman?’

‘You have to be, in the Marines.’

‘You should be in your element, then.’

Shelley pulled at his overalls. ‘Where are my clothes?’

‘We’re having them fumigated. You can have them back when the game is over, if you like. I mean, if you insist.’

‘Yes, I do insist,’ he said. ‘I’d like my clothes back.’

‘You’ll be able to afford some new ones when this is all over.’

He looked at her, seeing through her façade, seeing how much she was enjoying herself, and then forced himself to grin. ‘Yeah, of course. Old habits.’

She returned his smile. ‘And you play in the overalls, of course.’

‘Am I supposed to look like a prisoner?’

‘It’s not intentional.’

‘So I’m not a prisoner here, then? I can come and go as I want?’

She furrowed her brow. ‘Well, no, of course you can’t. There are all those pesky security issues I was talking about. But first you might want to know where “here” is. Can’t go into geographical detail, I’m afraid, but it’s an old reformatory school. These buildings were the staff dwellings. There’s a main school building and there are education blocks. There is also a gym, a swimming pool, a cinema and a library. Most of the complex is abandoned, but what bits you need are fully kitted out for your exclusive use. You are invited – one might almost say “required” – to use the swimming pool and gym on a daily basis. Use the cinema and library as you like, but we do insist that you maintain an exercise routine, eat well and abstain from alcohol and drugs, which is just as well, because of course there will be no drink or drugs available.’

‘And I’m forbidden to leave the complex?’

She laughed. ‘’Fraid so.’

‘What if I change my mind and don’t want to be a part of it any more.’

‘We hope that won’t occur.’

‘But what if it does?’

‘Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘it’s time for your medical. I’m going to need a urine sample and your fingerprint, for programming internal security.’

‘My fingerprint?’

‘Yes, we need it for internal security,’ smiled Claire. ‘I’ll also be taking blood, but before we start . . .’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘How about I give you half an hour to take a shower?’

She left and he watched her go, his mind on what he knew about hostage situations. Be courteous with your captors, but remember that any warmth they show you is purely procedural. Don’t let them get too close and, above all, whatever you do, don’t get too close to them.

Why? Because at some point you might have to kill them.

IN A DIMLY
lit room in the bowels of a private members’ club in Soho, the key members of The Quarry Company were meeting: the company’s head of security, Tremain, and the two owners, Curtis and Boyd.

Curtis and Boyd liked to refer to themselves as ‘administrators’, since there was nothing of The Quarry Company to own, not in the conventional sense. What they had was more precious than bricks and mortar, brand-name recognition, copyrights, trademarks and patents. They had information. And information, as they and their clients knew, was power.

They were both in their early forties and wore jeans, polo shirts and sweaters. If it looked as though life had been good to them, then that’s because it had. They were both the recipients of expensive educations and favours that had sped them up the career ladder in multinational investment banks.

With such an effortless ascent came boredom, and the two Chelsea housemates compensated the usual way: hookers, drugs and, in the down time between hookers and drugs, watching videos on YouTube.

One night they were watching videos of homeless men being paid by film-makers to fight. Not long after that, Boyd and Curtis staged their own ‘bum-fights’ for their friends, and what they quickly noticed was that their friends rarely talked of them, and even then only in the most guarded terms. Other illicit activities were fair game for a good laugh in the pub, but not the bum-fights.

One of the participants was killed, and for months Curtis and Boyd were terrified the death would be investigated. As it turned out, neither of them needed to work their contacts in the police force; there was no investigation. And that gave them the idea for The Quarry Company.

The rest, as they say, is history. It turned out that the omertà they’d noticed in their days organising bum-fights was multiplied a hundredfold when it came to the activities of The Quarry Company. They soon had a respectable client base who knew the rules; who even saw the activities of The QC as an act of insurrection against the political-correctness lobby, the do-gooders.

Whatever their reasons, whatever inspired them, the clients looked to The QC to provide them with something the outside world could not. And Curtis and Boyd were happy to provide it.

Over the course of three hunts, so far they had made around £120 million profit, but more importantly they had accrued undreamed-of influence. It was no exaggeration to say that they had the Establishment in their pocket, and as far as Curtis and Boyd were concerned, there was no reason it shouldn’t stay there.

‘How is the quarry?’ asked Curtis.