Hunter Hunted by Jack Gatland (best romantic books to read .TXT) 📕

‘We didn’t kill her,’ Will replied. ‘No command was given.’

‘And therefore Walsh will find whoever did it, and it won’t fall on us,’ Charles repeated. Will shifted in his seat.

‘Have you lost faith in me?’ he asked. Charles placed his cutlery down, glaring at his advisor.

‘Let me turn this around onto you,’ he snapped again. ‘Do you have faith in yourself? In your team? Because currently, I’m not seeing it. I might not have liked the Last Chance bloody Saloon, and they might have made my life a living hell, but they still saved my life and got me out of a decades long servitude agreement, so currently I feel a kinship for them. And if one of your men attacked Monroe—‘

‘Any order I gave was given by you,’ Will replied carefully. ‘It’s not my fault if you were too vague to give the specifics.’

Charles stared at Will for a moment, open-mouthed.

‘You little shit,’ he eventually hissed. ‘It was you?’

‘I just pass your wishes on,’ Will replied. He went to continue, but movement at the entrance to the terrace distracted him.

’And the charity case cometh,’ he muttered to himself as a woman holding a box file hurried over to them. She was in her late forties, with dyed blonde hair pulled back severely. She’d never mastered the art of makeup, and so her attempt was minimal, with a base foundation, lipstick and a deep blue eyeliner plastered on so strong that she looked more like a stage performer than a civil servant. She was overweight but not incredibly so and fidgeted with her wedding ring once she’d placed the box file on a convenient chair.

‘Laurie,’ Charles said with genuine delight. ‘How are you settling in?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ Laurie Hooper replied, still standing awkwardly. ‘I mean, it’s different to when I worked for your wife, but I’m grateful for the opportunity.’

‘Talking of opportunities, I hear you met some other MPs,’ Will said, looking up at her. Laurie flushed, twisting her wedding band even harder.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she half whispered. Will smiled.

‘I heard you were in The Horse and Guard pub in Chelsea two nights ago with Malcolm Gladwell.’ He noted Charles stop eating at this.

Laurie paled.

‘Um, yes,’ she replied. ‘He asked me for a drink, to see how I was settling in.’

‘And you didn’t think that was suspicious? That a rival MP invited you out?’

‘He’s a Conservative too,’ Laurie argued. ‘That’s not a rival.’

‘Depends on the job you’re going for,’ Charles muttered.

‘Be wary of Gladwell,’ Will said carefully. ‘He’s a party man. Which means he has no loyalty to anyone.’

‘What did you talk about?’ Charles asked nonchalantly. Laurie shrugged.

‘Things,’ she replied quietly. ‘He was worried about you.’

Charles almost laughed at this. Malcolm Gladwell barely spoke to him, even though they’d once worked in the same department. Although to be fair, Charles preferred it that way.

‘Then he can come and speak to Mister Baker himself,’ Will snapped. ‘And remember that you’re a married woman, Mrs Hooper.’

Laurie flinched at this, as if slapped physically by Will’s words.

‘We’re just friends,’ she replied, her voice only a whisper.

‘There are no friends in Westminster,’ Charles mused, continuing to spear at his salad with his fork.

‘Was there anything you wanted, anyway?’ Will enquired mockingly. ‘Or did you just want to stand awkwardly over us?’

Without another word Laurie picked up the box, turned and stomped out of the terrace area. Charles looked at Will, currently basking in the point score.

‘Bad move,’ he said. ‘We need her.’

‘The only reason she’s still employed on your staff is guilt, and you know it,’ Will replied. Charles finished his salad, dabbing at his lips.

‘Loyalty is something I respect,’ he said.

‘As do I,’ Will said, rising from the table as he did so. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry for spoiling your brunch. I’ll keep you in the loop on what happens with the investigation.’

‘Do so,’ Charles rose from the table as well now. ‘And check into why Malcolm bloody Gladwell is taking Donna’s ex-PA out for drinks, yeah? Because it sure as hell wasn’t to give an orientation.’

Malcolm Gladwell wasn’t at Parliament for the noon meetings. He’d returned to his Page Street apartment, his stomach flip-flopping after the news of Kendis Taylor’s death had fed through, looking for something that could settle it. The iPad that he currently stared at had The Daily Mail’s cover, with the image of a man outside Brompton Cemetery, and he had to place it back down to stop his hand shaking.

What if they learned it was him?

Kendis had been found in Brompton Cemetery, and from what the news outlets said, she had found her way in after hours. Even the police weren’t sure how she managed this, but Gladwell knew.

She’d taken the key from him, after all.

He sat on his sofa, staring out of the window for the moment. He didn’t have a magnificent view, but in all fairness, he wasn’t really paying attention to it. She’d gone there to get answers and had only found death. And somewhere there was likely to be a Special Services report that not only showed her talking to him in a local park, but also visiting a pub near Brompton Cemetery with him the night before. As soon as the CCTV footage came out, they’d find a way to leak it.

He’d expected this, though. This was a power move and a war. So he’d spoken to a journalist? Everyone does in Westminster. And as to her being a terrorist? He never knew that when they met. Gladwell knew that the rumours of extremism were just that, created to throw doubt on her. They didn’t expect a murder hunt and a terrorist plot suddenly being thrown upon the British public.

He started visibly when his buzzer went. Walking to the door, he saw on the video screen a woman, watching around nervously. Allowing the downstairs to open with a click of a button, Gladwell walked to the door and opened