The Accidental Warrior Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  The Quest

  The Accidental Warrior

  S J Mantle

  Copyright © 2018 S J Mantle

  Cover Design by Richie Cumberlidge at Daniel Goldsmith Associates Ltd

  Typeset by Daniel Goldsmith Associates Ltd, London

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.’

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  ISBN 978 1789011 784

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  In memory of my father who inspired my love of history and encouraged me to believe that anything is possible if you are determined enough

  PROLOGUE

  Philip 11 of Macedon was a remiarkable man. For twenty-three years he ruled Macedonia, transforming it from a primitive, factious kingdom to a centralised, prosperous state. Years of clever political brokering and strategic marriages saw him achieve what Sparta, Athens and Thebes of the fourth and fifth centuries had been unable to: the unification of the Greek States.

  In the summer of 336 BC, Philip held a lavish wedding for one of his daughters. The festivities lasted for days. It was an opportunity to show off his wealth and authority to guests who had gathered from across the Greek world. It should have been the start of even greater successes, for he was poised to invade Persia.

  As a fitting send-off for the planned invasion of Persia, a dawn ceremony was held to a packed theatre of distinguished spectators, including the King’s wives and mistresses and their young children. For all his political clout, Philip also had a reputation as a devoted family man.

  As the sun rose that morning, it bathed the theatre in soft golden light. A fanfare announced the start of the ceremony. Expectation filled the air. As the crowd caught sight of the first procession, a roar of approval erupted. Twelve magnificent statues of the gods and a thirteenth, fashioned in the likeness of the King, were carried in. It was a daring show of power. As the King entered the arena, he gestured to his bodyguards to leave his side. Then, as his foot companions fanned out to ensure he was the focus of attention, one of them, a young man called Pausanias, unexpectedly stepped forward and produced a small bladed dagger which he thrust into the King’s armpit, unprotected by his armour. As the King fell to the ground, fatally injured, pandemonium broke out.

  In the subsequent confusion, Pausanias fled on foot towards the west gate and waiting horses, swiftly pursued by the King’s bodyguards. Pausanias would have reached freedom had he not tripped on a root. This mistake cost him his life for he was promptly slain by a spear thrown by one of the bodyguards. This guaranteed there would be no opportunity to question him.

  In the days that followed, Macedonia became a dark and perilous place. Precious few believed Pausanias had acted alone. Philip’s murder left a power vacuum and although the King’s nineteen-year-old son Alexander was quick to assert his claim to the throne and to deal with the ensuing disorder, power games were afoot. Alexander’s mother, Olympias, took control of the royal palace. The Macedonian people had little love for her but, as Philip’s principle wife, she was now more powerful than ever.

  With the main players locked in a battle for power, no-one noticed the King’s young children disappear. By the time the alarm was raised it was too late; they had vanished without trace. Despite extensive searching and finger pointing, history offers no clue to their fate.

  CHAPTER 1

  Detective Harriet Lacey sat at her desk on the third floor of Police Headquarters, in a drab, open-plan office with pale grey walls and 1980s furniture. She was engrossed in cataloguing documents found at the home of an accountant who had died in a blaze, considered suspicious by the Fire Service. Harriet reached for the next item; a smoke-damaged orange note book. Leafing through, she saw page after page of neat, handwritten random numbers, presented in lines of varying lengths. She frowned, trying to understand its content. With no time to study it further, she wrote an exhibit label E61715 and sealed the note book in a clear plastic bag, which she placed on the ever-growing pile on her desk. Harriet paused for a second, for she had the feeling there was more to the accountant’s affairs than first met the eye. She made a mental note to investigate further when time allowed. Glancing at the clock on the wall she realised she was going to be late and jumped up, grabbing her jacket as she did so.

  As she drove down the road, a call came through on her hands-free from Ben, her fifteen-year-old son.

  “Mum, have you washed my sports kit? I need it now.”

  “No. You were wearing it when Dad took you to Granny and Granddad’s on Sunday.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Well I think you were, because Dad picked you up from a football match, remember?”

  “Shit. Shit. Dad’s a cock.”

  “Ben!” But the phone had gone dead.

  It seemed her persona non grata of a husband was about to experience the delights of their hormonal son first-hand. Harriet sighed. She was not going to get involved. She’d been trying hard not to think about Nick.

  Conscious of being late for her meeting, Harriet ran up the stairwell to the fourth floor. As she approached Superintendent Alec Brown’s office, she paused to catch her breath. The door was slightly ajar. She could hear voices within and leaned in closer to listen; it did not take long to realise she was the topic of conversation.

  “… Detective Sergeant Harriet Lacey has to leave Operation Eagle with immediate effect.”

  “Sir, I don’t understand. This is an important enquiry into
high-level corruption. Lacey is a key member of the team. It makes absolutely no sense,” said Detective Chief Inspector Derek Wynn.

  “Look, you don’t have to like it, just bloody move her,” said Brown.

  “Sir, Operation Eagle is a major enquiry. We have only just scratched the surface. The work Harriet and her team are doing in relation to the suspected arson is starting to create some interesting leads.”

  There was no response from Brown.

  “Why would Senior Management even consider moving one of their most effective detectives from such an important investigation? Harriet Lacey is an outstanding officer; her attention to detail is second to none. She is the most intuitive detective I have ever worked with.”

  “Wynn, I’m not debating this with you,” shouted Brown. “Post her to Operation Chapel. We’re not interested in her making a name for herself. Chapel has stalled. There are no active lines of enquiry. It’s the ideal place for her to go. She’ll have to work for her estranged husband though.” Brown was laughing loudly.

  Harriet used the wall to steady herself, then, not waiting for a response to her knock, she entered.

  “Good morning Superintendent Brown, DCI Wynn.”

  Brown waved her in. He was busy pouring coffee from an old-fashioned percolator, a chunky, clumsy, pale blue china pot, with a non-descript pattern and large plug. The room was strange, sparsely furnished except the walls, which were plastered with frames containing press releases, certificates, and photographs of her host.

  Superintendent Brown plonked a white china cup and saucer into Harriet’s hand. His fat little fingers looked remarkably like hairy chipolatas. As Brown sat back in his leather chair, his enormous belly wobbled like a blancmange; his round, fat face flushed by the exertion. It seemed to Harriet he was enjoying himself a little too much. As he leaned forward, the last remaining wisp of hair anchored to his expansive forehead flopped forward.

  Wynn cleared his throat and gestured to Harriet to take a seat.

  “Harriet, there is no easy way to say this, but you are to leave Operation Eagle with immediate effect.” He paused. “I’ve been ordered to post you to Operation Chapel as of Monday. I guess I don’t have to tell you that your husband heads this investigation up? I’m really very sorry.”

  In the silence Harriet tried to think of an appropriate response. She wondered what she’d done to provoke Senior Management to move her. And, as if she didn’t have enough on her plate, she was now expected to work for Nick. To hear his name was bad enough. She bit her lip. What a bloody mess; she could feel her colour rising. She knew better than to cause a scene; she’d been a police officer for twenty years, she knew to protest would be futile.

  Finally, Harriet broke the silence. “Well, thank you for having the decency to tell me in person, I appreciate that.”

  “Good. Well, that’s sorted then,” said a smirking Brown.

  “Harriet, I think it might be helpful to talk this through in my office, if you have a minute?” said Wynn, with his back to Brown.

  Harriet nodded and they stood up and left.

  Harriet followed Wynn down the five flights of stairs. He looked shorter than his 6 ft. He often seemed to walk with a slight stoop, as if borne down by the cares of the world. His hair was still jet-black even though, she guessed, he must be in his late forties. He was wiry but without the energy one would usually associate with an athletic frame. Harriet liked Wynn; he was steady and competent with a genuine smile and pleasant manner, and he was quite handsome to boot.

  In Wynn’s office, he shut the door.

  “Harriet, please believe me when I say I knew nothing of this until Brown dropped the bombshell just now and, for the record, I completely disagree with the decision. As unprofessional as this is, I do not like, and I do not trust, Brown one little bit.”

  “Thank you, Sir. It means a lot to have your support. Now what can you tell me about Operation Chapel?”

  “I don’t know much detail. Apparently there have been a series of unexplained deaths across the country, with startling similarities. The victims are high-profile and respected pillars of the community. A professor, a hospital consultant, a barrister, an accountant, a company director and, I believe, a scientist. All males, in their fifties or older. None appear to have had pre-existing significant health issues, or financial worries.”

  “Did any of them know each other?”

  “As far as can be ascertained, no. Our team are liaising with the other police forces involved. The pathologists have so far failed to find a cause of death. There are no obvious signs of trauma, no signs of violence, no signs of a struggle.”

  “So why does the team think the deaths are suspicious and linked?”

  “All were found lying on their backs with their hands folded across their chests. Their eyes had been closed. They appear to have been deliberately placed in this position, and each had been tattooed, post-mortem.”

  “Tattooed?” Harriet was now sitting on the edge of her chair.

  “Yes. Identical tattoos of a snake, possibly a viper.”

  “A snake?” Harriet shuddered.

  “Yes, tattooed onto the underside of the upper left arm.”

  “In every case?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “And do we know the significance of this?”

  “Sadly, no. But I will ask Detective Sergeant Steve Smith to bring you up to speed. He can help smooth your transition to the team. There is a briefing at eight a.m. on Monday morning. Good luck, Harriet, and please know that I am here if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Sir, I appreciate that,” she said, shaking Wynn’s hand. She turned to go.

  “Oh, and Harriet, just one more thing. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the expectation is that you will lie low on Operation Chapel.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Harriet had every intention of leaving the building, but as she reached the door to the car park, she changed her mind. She did not usually shy away from difficult situations but this was different; it was personal. Taking a deep breath, she turned and entered Operation Chapel.

  It was late in the day and the incident room was deserted except for Nick who was at his desk in a small, glass-walled office at the far end of the room.

  Professionally, Nick was a well-respected Senior Investigating Officer: experienced, intuitive, and generally viewed as fair and honourable. She had fallen in love with this 6 ft 2, blond, bearded, bear of a man. But it hadn’t taken her long to realise that he liked to be noticed.

  Harriet knocked on the open door. Nick looked up in surprise, jumping to his feet.

  “Harry. You’re the last person I expected to see tonight. Come in, and no, before you ask, I had nothing to do with your move. In fact, I’ve just finished speaking to Alec Brown about it.”

  “Really?” Harriet folded her arms.

  “Yes. It didn’t go well, I’m afraid. I told him that moving you to my team was at best insensitive and at worst vindictive. But he just grinned from behind his desk. The smug bastard seemed to be rather enjoying himself.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Sorry old boy, but it’s been decided at a much higher level than you or I, so like it or not, you have no say in the matter,” said Nick, mimicking Brown.

  “To which you said?”

  “Alec, please don’t piss me off any more than you have already. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Did you say that, or shout that?” Harriet coloured.

  Nick shot her a look. “I may have raised my voice a little.”

  “And then what?”

  “Nothing much,” Nick replied too quickly.

  “Didn’t you ask him where the order came from, or the reason for it? Or even why Operation Chapel?”

  “Well, of course I did.” Nick’s voice was still raised. Harriet thought he looked flushed.

  “His lame response was to say something like, ‘Look old boy. I really am not at liberty
to say. I followed my orders, and I really don’t know myself.’”

  “And you let it go at that?” said Harriet, hands on hips.

  “No. Brown offered to make representations on my behalf and report back,” said a defensive Nick. “I told him that he’d better do more than that, that I wanted a conversation with someone in the know, or I promised him there would be consequences.” Nick was pacing up and down the small office. He turned to face her, but Harriet avoided his gaze.

  “Look Harry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your job. I’m sorry about the fact you now must work with me. In fact, I’m sorry about everything. I made a mistake.”

  “Stop.” Harriet raised her hand.

  “Have you read my letters yet?”

  “I can’t do this right now. Not yet. I’m not ready. So, please, if you hear anything from Brown, let me know?”

  “Of course,” came his whispered reply, as Harriet strode out of the office, no nearer to the truth.

  She sat in the car, she did not know for how long; she needed to compose herself, her whole body was shaking.

  Returning home, Harriet entered the house she had once loved so much. She made her way through the black and white tiled entrance hall to the kitchen at the rear of the property. French doors at the far end of the room opened onto a sheltered courtyard. Head pounding, and body aching, she slipped off her boots and poured herself an enormous glass of red wine. Collapsing onto the sofa, she stretched out. Reaching behind her head for the iPod, she pressed the ‘play’ button. Phil Collins blasted out Separate Lives and she began to weep in earnest. She missed having the children around, she missed the chaos of family life, she missed not feeling angry, hurt and tired. Wiping her tears with a tissue from her pocket, she picked up the landline.