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.
CHAPTER 17
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
‘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.
CHAPTER 17
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
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