David Shelley?’
‘Been a while since anyone called me that.’
‘It’s been a while since you left the SAS.’
‘Three years.’
‘It was two years ago that you left the SAS, actually. Two years three months and change, if we’re being precise.’ The guy had a neutral voice, difficult to place. That would be deliberate. Shelley had wondered if his MoD request for the present whereabouts of Cookie (response: no fixed abode) might have triggered a flag at Whitehall. Maybe this was the flag waving.
‘Well, you’ve got my attention. What do you want to know?’
‘I hear you’re looking for Major Paul Cook, your old commanding officer.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Who I am can wait. You’re going to have to bear with me on that. In the meantime, I have something I must tell you.’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Cookie’s dead?’ He’d been half expecting it, of course, but even so. Something inside him bunched up. He felt the kind of guilt and shame that might be banished by a drink, but he fought those conflicting emotions: the urge to drink, the grief.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the caller.
‘How? How did he die?’
‘That’s something we need to discuss. Are you by any chance within striking distance of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital?’
‘I can be.’
‘Can you go there now?’
‘I can.’
‘Good. I’ll make contact outside. Oh, Mr Shelley? I need to know how long you’ll be – as accurately as possible, please.’
Shelley’s gaze went to where the skeletal structures of market stalls disrupted the dark of Exmouth Market. Practised eyes sought out hiding places and, sure enough, his Two Dogs trouble lurked in the shadows further along.
‘Make it an hour,’ he said.
‘Very well. I’ll see you then.’
Shelley ended the call, then strolled in the direction of Yardley Street until the guy from the pub appeared from the doorway of Greggs. Shelley stopped. Hands in his coat pockets, he gripped his phone.
‘I thought we’d reached an understanding,’ he called. ‘You leave me be, I don’t break any of your bones. Seemed fairly straightforward to me.’
Moonlight skittered along the blade of the knife. ‘You like talking down to me, don’t you?’ said the guy. ‘You think I’m stupid.’
‘No, mate, I think you’re desperate, and there’s a difference. Look, final offer. Put the knife away and we’ll say no more. I’ll even spot you a drink. Maybe even one for your two friends behind me.’
The guy’s eyes widened. With the element of surprise lost, he seemed to consider, wondering if a drink wasn’t such a bad return on the encounter. But his friends behind thought differently. They hadn’t met Shelley. Hadn’t experienced at first hand the aura of danger. And they made their move.
Shelley kept himself in shape, but there were certain habits he’d let slip since leaving the SAS. He no longer performed knuckle push-ups or punched bags of rice to keep his fists hard, so rather than risk his hand, he used the edge of his phone to break the first guy’s nose.
The effect was instant: overwhelming pain, confusion and blindness, his attacker neutralised at once. Shelley finished it. He grabbed a fistful of the guy’s hair, drove an elbow into his temple, then dragged the limp body across himself to block the second assailant. This one had a knife, but Shelley jabbed into the guy’s septum with the flat of his right hand. A little harder and he could have killed him. As it was, he simply put him down, and then reached to scoop up the knife.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he called after the guy from the pub, who had turned and shown a clean pair of heels, ‘you lot can’t sharpen knives for shit.’
CHAPTER 5
‘CAPTAIN SHELLEY.’ THE man who stood beside a low wall outside the hospital wore a woollen coat and black jeans similar to Shelley’s, almost as though he were deliberately mirroring him. ‘My name is Claridge,’ he said, and held out his hand to
‘Been a while since anyone called me that.’
‘It’s been a while since you left the SAS.’
‘Three years.’
‘It was two years ago that you left the SAS, actually. Two years three months and change, if we’re being precise.’ The guy had a neutral voice, difficult to place. That would be deliberate. Shelley had wondered if his MoD request for the present whereabouts of Cookie (response: no fixed abode) might have triggered a flag at Whitehall. Maybe this was the flag waving.
‘Well, you’ve got my attention. What do you want to know?’
‘I hear you’re looking for Major Paul Cook, your old commanding officer.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Who I am can wait. You’re going to have to bear with me on that. In the meantime, I have something I must tell you.’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Cookie’s dead?’ He’d been half expecting it, of course, but even so. Something inside him bunched up. He felt the kind of guilt and shame that might be banished by a drink, but he fought those conflicting emotions: the urge to drink, the grief.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the caller.
‘How? How did he die?’
‘That’s something we need to discuss. Are you by any chance within striking distance of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital?’
‘I can be.’
‘Can you go there now?’
‘I can.’
‘Good. I’ll make contact outside. Oh, Mr Shelley? I need to know how long you’ll be – as accurately as possible, please.’
Shelley’s gaze went to where the skeletal structures of market stalls disrupted the dark of Exmouth Market. Practised eyes sought out hiding places and, sure enough, his Two Dogs trouble lurked in the shadows further along.
‘Make it an hour,’ he said.
‘Very well. I’ll see you then.’
Shelley ended the call, then strolled in the direction of Yardley Street until the guy from the pub appeared from the doorway of Greggs. Shelley stopped. Hands in his coat pockets, he gripped his phone.
‘I thought we’d reached an understanding,’ he called. ‘You leave me be, I don’t break any of your bones. Seemed fairly straightforward to me.’
Moonlight skittered along the blade of the knife. ‘You like talking down to me, don’t you?’ said the guy. ‘You think I’m stupid.’
‘No, mate, I think you’re desperate, and there’s a difference. Look, final offer. Put the knife away and we’ll say no more. I’ll even spot you a drink. Maybe even one for your two friends behind me.’
The guy’s eyes widened. With the element of surprise lost, he seemed to consider, wondering if a drink wasn’t such a bad return on the encounter. But his friends behind thought differently. They hadn’t met Shelley. Hadn’t experienced at first hand the aura of danger. And they made their move.
Shelley kept himself in shape, but there were certain habits he’d let slip since leaving the SAS. He no longer performed knuckle push-ups or punched bags of rice to keep his fists hard, so rather than risk his hand, he used the edge of his phone to break the first guy’s nose.
The effect was instant: overwhelming pain, confusion and blindness, his attacker neutralised at once. Shelley finished it. He grabbed a fistful of the guy’s hair, drove an elbow into his temple, then dragged the limp body across himself to block the second assailant. This one had a knife, but Shelley jabbed into the guy’s septum with the flat of his right hand. A little harder and he could have killed him. As it was, he simply put him down, and then reached to scoop up the knife.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he called after the guy from the pub, who had turned and shown a clean pair of heels, ‘you lot can’t sharpen knives for shit.’
CHAPTER 5
‘CAPTAIN SHELLEY.’ THE man who stood beside a low wall outside the hospital wore a woollen coat and black jeans similar to Shelley’s, almost as though he were deliberately mirroring him. ‘My name is Claridge,’ he said, and held out his hand to
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