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

black glasses were on and his overcoat-well, his father’s overcoat, as his was in a train somewhere, had the lapels pulled up.

The door opened a crack and a nervous young police officer peered out into the night, staring at Declan, still slightly in the shadows. Declan held up the warrant card momentarily, ensuring that the police officer saw the name and rank, but didn’t focus on the image with it.

‘Bit late, sir?’ The officer asked. Declan shrugged.

‘Crime waits for no man, and we’re short staffed,’ he explained. The officer laughed, opening the door wider to let Declan in.

‘Story of my life, sir,’ he said as Declan entered the house.

‘Is she still up?’ Declan asked as they walked down the main hallway. The officer nodded.

‘Stays up past midnight. It’s like having a bloody teenager when we try to get her to go to bed.’

‘We?’

‘There’s always two of us here, sir. One on the door and the other with Pearce. You know, to ensure she’s not trying to get messages out.’

Declan paused. ‘Why not put CCTV in the rooms?’ he asked. ‘I mean, surely that’d make things easier.’

‘There're cameras, but we’re not allowed sound,’ the officer explained as he walked to the living room door, opening it. ‘Part of the plea deal her lawyers are working out. You need long?’

‘Just a few minutes,’ Declan said as he entered the living room. It was white walled, with a full wall replaced by full-length windows that looked out into the garden, but were currently covered with slate grey slatted blinds. A large television, at least sixty inches in size, was on one wall, and underneath it was some kind of console machine and a Blu-ray player. A brown leather sofa faced it, a small glass coffee table blocking the path, and a second leather armchair sat at a ninety-degree angle to them both. Another police officer, a young female PCSO looked up at the door when they entered; the woman on the sofa continued to watch the news on the TV.

‘DI Frost needs to ask Miss Pearce some questions,’ the police officer beside Declan explained, and Declan prepared himself to attack; the moment Pearce looked at him, the game would be up. She knew who he really was, and all she had to do was say this to the officers in the room.

Declan was hoping, however, that she wouldn’t.

‘I’ve told you all I’m willing to say right now—‘ Francine Pearce said as she turned to look at Declan, her eyes widening with recognition. ‘Oh. Now this is interesting.’

Declan looked to the female PCSO, now rising from the leather armchair. ‘If you could both give us some time alone?’ he asked.

The two officers made their way out of the room as Declan walked over to the recently vacated chair, sitting in it. He’d noticed that the camera in the room, a small Wi-Fi ball on a corner shelf was pointed directly at him, but considering the fact that he was impersonating an officer and had two police officers outside who had already seen his face, the moment for hiding his face was long gone, and he was happy to risk this.

Francine Pearce was slim, in her forties and had a black, 1920s bob cut to her hair. Usually at home in business suits and dresses, it seemed strange for her to be in jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, although her makeup was still on point, her hair set perfectly. It was almost as if they took the head and the body from two different images; one glamorous and swish, the other some kind of lounge wear catalogue, and photoshopped together.

A smile on her face, she picked up the remote and muted the television.

‘Last I saw you, it was on that television,’ she commented. ‘Nice little piece in the news. Apparently you’re a terrorist now or something.’

‘Last time I saw you, I remember you shooting me twice in the chest,’ Declan retorted. Pearce laughed.

‘Would have been a damn sight more impressive if Donnal had used real bullets instead of blanks,’ she replied. ‘What do you want, Walsh? I mean, it must be something pretty bloody big for you to waltz in here while the subject of a national manhunt. I wonder how many favours I’d gain if I was to call out and inform them who you are.’

‘If you were going to do that, you would have done it the moment you saw me,’ Declan replied. ‘But if you’d rather watch the TV with your babysitter, I can bring her right back.’

‘Christ, no,’ Pearce grimaced. ‘I’m bored shitless. You’re actually a welcome distraction.’ She leaned back in her seat. ‘So, go on then. Why are you here bothering me?’

‘Rattlestone,’ Declan replied. ‘And the death of Kendis Taylor.’

‘I heard she was a terrorist.’

‘I heard you were her source.’

Francine Pearce stopped at that. ‘Who told you?’ she asked. Declan shrugged.

‘Nasir Gill, right before he was murdered by people who claimed to be Special Branch.’

‘Sounds like you had an exciting day,’ Francine grinned. ‘So tell me what you want to know about Rattlestone, then.’

Declan pulled out his notepad. ‘Who runs it?’ he asked. ‘The only name anyone knows is Donna Baker, but she’s dead.’

‘Poor woman,’ Francine nodded. ‘The only fallout of the Davies case that I’m truly sorry for, was her finding out what a total shit her husband was.’ She leaned forward, picking up a glass of wine from the coffee table. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but to be honest I don’t want to.’

‘Don’t drink while on duty,’ Declan replied, almost automatically. Francine choked on the wine as she laughed.

‘You’re on the run and excommunicated from the force,’ she said, placing the glass back down. ‘You’re using someone else’s warrant card. You’re literally cosplaying a copper right now. There’s no duty involved.’

Declan bristled but didn’t reply, mainly because he knew she was right. Eventually Francine stopped laughing and thought about the question, furrowing her brow as she steepled her fingers together.

‘There’s a board of directors, but it’s