Hunted: BookShots (8 page)

Tremain replied, ‘Claire reports excellent progress. He’s adapting well to life at reform school.’

‘Good. Will he be ready for this weekend?’

‘Oh, he was ready before we met him; according to Claire, he’s an excellent physical specimen.’

‘Good. Well done. Pleased to hear it.’

Boyd leaned forward to where his briefcase rested on a low table. He opened it, momentarily fiddled with the laptop inside, then closed it again.

‘I hope you don’t keep details of hunts on that thing,’ said Tremain.

‘The bare minimum, and it’s all encrypted,’ replied Boyd. ‘Our main archive is safe in a deposit box.’

‘That where your bodies are buried, is it?’

‘It’s biometrically protected. Basically you need to be me or Boyd to see it. Everything else is up here.’ Curtis tapped the side of his head. ‘Why do you ask? What’s the interest?’

‘You have to be able to drop everything and walk away, if needs be. Nothing incriminating. No paper trail.’

‘Of course. But why bring that up now?’

‘Well, it could be something, could be nothing, but we have an issue.’ The two men looked sharply at him, so Tremain kept it simple. ‘It’s information from Kenneth Farmer. Sarah has become suspicious and she’s been talking to a third party.’

Curtis made a disgusted sound. ‘That idiot, Farmer. What kind of third party?’

‘She corresponds with a “Simon”, initials “SC”. It would seem likely that this is Simon Claridge, an MI5 operative. They had a relationship at Cambridge and have remained close ever since.’

‘You know this man Claridge?’

‘He’s in another section, different floor. I see him in the lift occasionally. He’s younger but older, if you know what I mean. He has a decent rank and a reputation as a good man. If he does suspect anything, then he’s too clever to go making a song and dance about it. What we need to know is if he can link Farmer to anyone else in the organisation. You two, for instance. Have you ever met Farmer?’

‘We did, once,’ admitted Curtis.

Tremain grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘That was a little reckless, if I may say so.’

Curtis shrugged. ‘Kenneth Farmer is one of those who offers us favours, in order to supplement his fee. Occasionally we have to meet him to discuss this. Besides, you taught us well, Obi Wan. We made sure of using the CCTV dead zones.’

‘Well, if you’d been identified, your names would have come up on the grid and I’d have been alerted. So let’s assume, for the time being, that Claridge hasn’t made the connection. In that case, he’s a man with a suspicion, and not much else.’

‘He’ll start digging,’ whined Boyd. ‘This is just the start of the investigation. Farmer’s playing at the weekend. This man Claridge could follow him to the hunt. Look, this is all getting too hot for me. Oakleigh’s death, and now this. We should call it off.’

Curtis sighed. ‘We have over seventy million riding on this hunt – we’re not going to call it off. If there’s a leak, we plug it.’

‘You’re both right,’ said Tremain. ‘We need to neutralise the threat ahead of this weekend or we will have to cancel.’

‘We’re not cancelling,’ insisted Curtis. ‘It’s your job to sort it, so sort it.’

‘Yes. For fuck’s sake, Tremain,’ blurted Boyd, sweat glistening on his forehead, ‘do what you’re paid for. Kill Claridge. Make it look like an accident. We can’t afford any leaks.’

Tremain looked at the two of them, trying to keep the distaste off his face. ‘Look, don’t panic, either of you. We need to take Claridge out of the equation, but equally the last thing we want to do is to raise Sarah Farmer’s suspicions. The obvious course of action is to bring Claridge on board.’

Tremain did his best to calm the two bankers, but even so, he was beginning to form suspicions of his own. What he heard from the reformatory was ringing alarm bells. He’d be making some investigations of his own before confronting Claridge.

‘And if he doesn’t want to come on board?’ said Curtis. ‘You said he was a good man. What if he just wants to bring us down?’

Tremain smiled. ‘Claridge has a family. We’ll be sure to use the carrot
and
the stick.’

SHELLEY STAVED OFF
the boredom of his days at the reformatory school with exercise, Bruce Willis movies and paperback novels.

He was virtually alone. The guards he saw kept their distance, restricting contact to a cheery wave. Surveillance was conducted via CCTV cameras. Shelley occupied himself with trying to spot them all.

Forming the perimeter was a sturdy partition wall. From the outside it would look like just another long-germinating suburban development, and even if you managed to bypass the CCTV and security guards to get inside, you wouldn’t see much. Most of it was as Claire had described, a vision in rack and ruin. The walkways and service roads were cracked and strewn with weeds and litter; the buildings were run-down, almost every window smashed.

All, that was, apart from the area he considered to be his living quarters – the apartment, gym, swimming pool – which were disguised behind doors that looked ramshackle, but were in fact reinforced with steel bolts. The locks were operated using discreet fingerprint security, and he never quite got over the sense of
passing through a portal, from an old derelict world into something modern and gleaming.

All of the doors he’d tried accepted his fingerprint, apart from one: the main gate, wide enough to allow for vehicles. He’d located the scanner and tried his index finger, but the gate stayed shut. Through a gap he could see a portable building that he took to be a guardhouse, and he pictured Claire inside watching him, enjoying the show. He half expected her to make an appearance, gently chiding him for his attempts to leave.

At night the complex was lit and he was able to use it just as he could do during the day, but he made sure to get his rest, sleeping at night. The daytime was spent preparing. Mentally, mainly, but also physically. When he was in the swimming pool and his hands were invisible to the CCTV cameras, he massaged them, working his double-jointed thumbs. If he was right, then slipping out of handcuffs would prove to be essential.

‘Hello, Captain Hodge,’ Claire said when she came at midday.

‘It’s Hodges,’ he corrected her.

‘Oh, I am sorry. And here was me, trying to find out how you’re getting on.’

‘Haven’t you been watching me?’

‘Watching you tells me what you’re doing. It doesn’t tell me how you’re getting on.’

‘Well, I’m getting on fine, thank you very much. How much longer will I be here?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ she smiled.

He had to admit, it was disarming, that smile. The kind of smile that took your mind off what you’d asked in the first place.

‘Do you know?’ he asked.

‘I do. But I can’t tell you.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Security. Questions, questions . . .’

‘You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in two days, of course I’m going to have questions. When do I get my money?’

‘On completion of the job. In the meantime, you do know you’re being very well looked after, don’t you?’

‘All this, just for a game?’

‘It’s much more than just a game,’ she said, as though parroting a manual. ‘What we offer is a bespoke service. We offer excellence. Or at least the
illusion
of excellence. Which is why you need to be in good condition. Your medical has been a total success. The best I’ve ever had, in fact. No alcohol in you, which is very unusual. No drugs, either. You must be the most abstemious homeless man there ever was.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘How did you end up on the streets?’ she asked, settling into the sofa.

He told her a well-rehearsed story, one that corresponded with the details on Captain Steve Hodges’ file, and she listened intently, nodding, smiling sympathetically. Every inch the confidante.

When he’d finished, her smile remained, but instead of following up with more questions or changing the subject, her eyes stayed fixed on his. ‘Can I ask you a question, Captain Hodges?’ she said. Her voice had dropped. It was a little more husky.

‘You can,’ he said, cautiously.

‘Why haven’t you made a pass at me? Every other contestant we’ve had here has tried his luck, but not you. Most of them . . .’ she waved a hand as though put off by the idea. ‘But you’re the first one I might have considered.’

‘What can I say? I’m a perfect gentleman. That and . . .’ He pointed upwards, indicating the camera.

For a moment he thought she was about to put a move on him, and he steeled himself to resist. He’d always had a soft spot for borderline-sadistic girls, especially when they wore it as well as Claire did.

But she stood, seemingly satisfied. ‘I’ll see you in a few days, Captain Hodges. Keep up the good work. I’ll need to appraise you for my employers, and at the moment you can be sure it’ll be a glowing report.’

With Claire gone, Shelley sat and thought. He was being tested, no doubt about it. Were they suspicious? For the first time he wondered about the wisdom of staying clean. It marked him out, and not in a good way.

He found himself chewing his lip, wondering what they knew and what they were planning. If his cover were blown, they’d have confronted him by now. He’d be food for pigs.

Wouldn’t he?

CLARIDGE HAD FINISHED
watching CCTV film taken from outside the Ten Bells pub on Commercial Street. The only relevant footage was a brief glimpse of the back of a tan jacket as its wearer disappeared into the pub. Like the two men who had met Kenneth Farmer, this one had known to use CCTV dead spots.

Just then came a knock at the frosted glass of his office door, and he looked up to see a figure outside – a figure wearing a tan leather jacket.

Claridge closed the viewing application on his computer and went to the door. There stood Hugh Tremain of D Section, wearing the selfsame jacket Claridge had just seen on the CCTV footage. Tremain carried a laptop. ‘Might I have a word, Simon?’ he smiled.

Claridge swallowed, trying not to let his apprehension show. ‘Of course. You mind if I leave the door open while we talk? It’s getting a bit stuffy in here.’

‘I’d prefer that you didn’t. It’s a rather . . . sensitive matter.’

It was past seven in the evening, and the open-plan office behind them was almost empty. ‘We’ve more or less got the place to ourselves,’ said Claridge, and with a meaningful look at Tremain added, ‘I’ll leave it open, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure, whatever you say. Your office.’

Claridge hurried back to his desk.

‘What did I interrupt?’ asked Tremain, placing his laptop on Claridge’s desk and sitting.

‘Oh, nothing too important.’ Claridge glanced nervously at Tremain’s laptop as his fingers danced on the keyboard.

‘So what are you typing then?’ asked Tremain pleasantly. He sat back and crossed his legs.

‘It’s procedure to log visitors.’

‘Yes, of course. I usually do mine when my visitor has departed.’

Claridge continued to type, then pressed return.

‘All done?’ smiled Tremain.

‘All done,’ Claridge smiled back.

‘No point in trying to kill you now, then?’

Claridge didn’t even blink. Didn’t give Tremain the satisfaction. ‘Is that your intention, is it? To kill me?’

Tremain chuckled. ‘If it was, would I do it here in the office, do you think?’

‘Your organisation seems to favour hiding in plain sight.’

‘Does it? Really? Is that so?’

The two men fell silent and Claridge was glad of a moment to gather his thoughts. He’d been exposed somehow. But how? And how much did they know? And what the bloody hell was Tremain doing in his office?

‘I won’t insult your intelligence by asking you how much you know about us,’ Tremain was saying. He slouched, but watched Claridge carefully. ‘You’d be a fool to tell me. The point is you
know
something
, and that’s enough to worry my associates. As you’re well aware, we’re in the business of containing information, Simon. We nurture it, protect it. We take care it doesn’t go anywhere it shouldn’t. But when it does – well, then we need to do something about it.’

‘Are you talking as an MI5 man or in some other capacity?’ asked Claridge, probing gently.

‘Bit of both. The lines are blurred.’

‘So – what? You plan to buy my silence?’

‘Well, that depends. Can your silence be bought?’

Claridge made a small scoffing sound. ‘What you’re involved with is inhuman. It’s despicable.’

‘That’s a no, is it?’

‘You bet your life it’s a no. You need to be stopped.’

‘I see. And you’re the man to do it, are you? Simon Claridge in the giddy heights of F Section is going to bring us down?’

Claridge felt himself deflate a little.

‘No, I thought not,’ smiled the other man. ‘Problem is, you’ve been rumbled, and that makes you less than useless. There’s not a thing you can do now.’

‘I should be silenced then. What are you waiting for?’

Tremain sighed. ‘Look, wet-work is by its definition messy. But even more than that, we don’t
want
to terminate you, Simon; we’d rather have you as an asset. We want to bring you into the fold. You accept our money, you become implicated – we’re all happy.’

Claridge shook his head. ‘I can’t sit by and let you continue. I can’t. I couldn’t live with myself.’

Tremain rolled his eyes, but the gesture was too theatrical to convince Claridge.
He’s got something up his sleeve,
he thought.
Something to do with that laptop.
‘Oh, come on. Don’t make this difficult, for God’s sake. Take the money, tell me what I want to know, and we can tie off this whole sorry business and look forward to a future of giving each other little knowing winks in the lift.’

‘What do you mean? What do you want to know?’

Tremain leaned forward. He put one hand on Claridge’s desk, close to the laptop.

‘I’ll be honest. I was telling a fib when I said I wasn’t going to ask you what you knew. In fact, I want to know exactly what you know.’

‘Very little, is the answer,’ replied Claridge cautiously.