The Becket Approval Falconer Duncan (ebook reader .txt) 📖

The last person to walk on board was the thin grey-haired man in black. Gunnymede watched him take a seat a few rows ahead on the other side. Gunnymede didn’t know him, but there was something familiar about his aura. And he was pretty sure he knew what it was. He couldn’t give a damn enough to wonder why the man was tagging along.

An hour into the flight, a stewardess came by with a drinks trolley and asked Gunnymede what he’d like. Gunnymede asked for a whisky which his police officer took pleasure in denying him. Bastard. Gunnymede closed his eyes and tried to shut the world out. Prison had taught him how to clear his mind and let time pass without stress but he wasn’t successful on this occasion and opted to watch a movie. A meal helped pass the time. When he finally felt like dropping off, an intercom voice announced the aircraft would soon be landing.

When the plane came to a halt in its parking bay and the passengers got to their feet, Gunnymede’s escort remained seated. They waited until everyone was off before the officer ushered him to move out. Gunnymede passed the man in black who had remained in his seat. Another plain-clothes officer was waiting for them at the end of the air bridge and the three headed through the terminal towards immigration. Before they reached it, the officers stopped at a security door and punched a code into a key pad.

A man’s voice came from behind them. ‘Excuse me, officers.’

It was the tall, thin man. He was holding out a badge for them to inspect. Gunnymede recognised it. His suspicions had been correct. The man offered them a folded paper. The security door opened and a senior uniformed officer stood in the doorway. The man in black redirected the paper to him. He read it, looked at the badge and begrudgingly nodded to his men.

‘Remove the cuffs,’ the man in black said in a croaky voice that had the hint of a foreign accent.

They obeyed.

‘Come with me,’ he said to Gunnymede.

The officers watched them walk away as if they’d been verbally abused.

As they approached an immigration officer directing passengers into the appropriate passport queues, the tall man showed his badge again. The officer removed a barrier and invited the pair to take an empty fast track lane that led to an immigration officer in a cubicle. The badge was presented once again along with another piece of paper. Gunnymede noticed his picture on it beside an ornate Ministry of Defence logo. The immigration officer read it, glanced at the badge, at Gunnymede and nodded them through.

When they stepped outside the terminal building a vehicle was waiting for them. They climbed into the back and off it drove.

‘What’s this about?’ Gunnymede asked.

The man ignored him.

Forty-five minutes later, the car came to a stop in the backstreets of the Temple and they climbed out in front of a building a stone’s throw from the Thames that Gunnymede recognised.

‘Harlow?’ Gunnymede muttered, somewhat surprised.

His escort led the way into the building and up a flight of stairs to the first floor where Gunnymede was invited to step into a Georgian-style ante-room. Every surface was wood or leather coated, with books packed onto the shelves lining the walls.

Gunnymede recognised the secretary who managed the gateway to Harlow’s office. He couldn’t remember her name though, if he’d ever known it. She was that classic severe, mature, unattractive matronly type. Harlow didn’t permit the distraction of a female pleasing to the eye to hold that position.

It wasn’t long before the secretary opened a door and settled her gaze on Gunnymede. ‘You may go in now,’ she said.

Gunnymede got to his feet and entered. Harlow was seated behind an ornate desk scribbling something. The office hadn’t changed as far as Gunnymede could recall. All wood and leather, like the ante-room. Dark green and brown. The formal twat looked the same in his dark, expensive suit. He always reminded Gunnymede of a thin Churchill. There was even a cigar in the ashtray beside a crystal glass containing an amber liquid.

The man in black joined them and closed the door.

Harlow regarded Gunnymede with the slightest of smiles, as if he was enjoying the visitor’s discomfort. ‘Thank you, Aristotle,’ he said.

Aristotle, Gunnymede thought. Odd moniker.

‘Devon Gunnymede,’ Harlow said, savouring the name. ‘I expect you’re surprised to find yourself in here. Have those five years flown by as quickly for you as they have for me? How was your American jail time? You look very well on it.’

‘It was boring.’

‘Yes. I suppose that’s the point of these things, isn’t it? Take a seat.’

Gunnymede sat in a chair the other side of Harlow’s desk.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Harlow asked. ‘Scotch is your poison, isn’t it? Single Malt. Would you be so kind, Aristotle?’

The tall man walked over to a dresser with a large crystal decanter on it and poured a finger into a glass.

‘A touch of water,’ Harlow added, confidently.

Aristotle added the water and handed the glass to Gunnymede.

Gunnymede looked at the drink. Harlow had never offered him one before. He put the glass to his nose and savoured the aroma. Nice. He took a sip. Nectar.

‘You’re wondering what you’re doing in your old boss’s office sipping whisky when you should be awaiting transfer to one of Her Majesty’s prisons in order to complete the UK portion of your sentence. Another five years, I expect.’

Gunnymede stared at him. All of the above was correct.

‘I’ll get right to the point. Spangle’s back and the game is in play once again.’

Gunnymede shifted in his seat. There were so many implications to what had just been said it was overpowering.

‘Not