Hunted Read Free Page A

shake.
    Shelley’s eyes ran down the line of his coat, but he guessed if the guy was carrying a weapon, it would be better hidden than that. ‘You’re MoD, are you?’
    ‘No, MI5. Now, if you’d like to follow me inside, and follow my line exactly, please.’
    ‘It’s like that, is it? We want to keep our TV appearances to a minimum.’
    Claridge nodded. He was about the same age as Shelley, both of them knocking on forty, but he was as neat and nondescript as his voice. ‘I’ve already been inside and paved the way, so to speak. We need to make the best use of our time, so any more talking we’ll do in the mortuary.’
    They stepped inside the hospital, Shelley tracing Claridge’s steps. As they descended to the mortuary he felt the old tickle of anticipation, then remembered why they were here: becauseCookie was dead; because I’ve always got your back was suddenly an empty promise.
    The mortuary attendant slept at his desk, and the department was otherwise empty. Claridge tutted as they passed, raising a wry eyebrow. ‘Fast asleep. And with all that coffee, too.’
    ‘How long will he be out?’
    ‘Half an hour. It’s all we’ll need.’
    They passed through more double doors and into a room that was markedly colder. Claridge approached a bank of metal drawers, reaching for the one marked ‘Cook, P.’
    ‘The body was discovered behind bins in an alley at the back of Tottenham Court Road. A quantity of cocaine was found in his jacket pocket. The official line of enquiry is that your friend was involved in a drug deal that went wrong.
    Cookie hated drugs , thought Shelley. As far as he was concerned, they were the devil’s business . But of course a lot could change.
    ‘Perhaps you’d like to suspend judgement until you see the body.’ Claridge hesitated, his hand on the drawer. ‘I must warn you, it’s not pretty.’
    ‘He was never what you’d call an oil painting.’
    ‘I’m afraid he looks a lot worse now.’ Out came the drawer and right away Shelley noticed the unusual contours of the sheet covering the head. He nodded to Claridge, who drew the sheet down to the neck.
    Shelley clenched his jaw. It was Cookie, but only just – Cookie, but missing most of his skull, the brain-pan like a jagged rocky outcrop, the cavity empty where what was left of the brain had been removed.
    ‘The autopsy’s been carried out?’ he asked.
    ‘I have a copy for you here.’ From his coat, Claridge produced a brown Manila folder that he passed to Shelley.
    Shelley leafed through, moving around the drawer to inspect the head wound. A thought made him catch himself. It’s not just another body on the battlefield – this one is Cookie . Then he forced himself to return dispassionately to the matter at hand.
    ‘No rim burn, it says here. No scorching or stippling on the wound. Means the shooter stood at a distance.’ He looked at Claridge. ‘What does that tell you?’
    ‘I’m your standard-issue pencil-pusher. I want your opinion.’
    ‘It means your drug-deal-gone-wrong theory is most likely cobblers.’
    ‘It’s not my theory.’
    ‘Any casings at the scene?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Any physical evidence of shots fired at the scene?’
    ‘Not even any reports of shots fired.’
    Shelley examined the wound some more, glad that the body’s eyes were closed. He referred back to the autopsy notes, talking to himself as much as Claridge. ‘No slug recovered, obviously.’
    Claridge shook his head. ‘What do you think we would have learned from it?’
    ‘The slug? Well, it would depend if the weapon’s riflings were on record. Otherwise, not a lot we can’t work out from the wound. Damage like this, the slug had to come from a high-powered shoulder weapon and, with that kind of rifle, it doesn’t matter if you hitanything major, because the shock or blood loss does the rest.’ He stopped. Thinking. ‘But this was a head-shot. This wasn’t snatched in haste. The shooter took his time, fired from a