Hunter Hunted, Jack Gatland [good story books to read .txt] 📗

dead members of the family. They didn’t look as if they’d been touched in years.

What did look like it’d been disturbed recently was a small table against the back wall, a wrought iron cross on top of it, and a circular mark on the surface, as if something with a circular base had been moved after years, leaving a change in colouration. Shining the torch to the floor, Declan saw shards of a ceramic bowl, shattered into pieces on the floor. And, when he looked closer, the floor, damp and mouldy, seemed darker here, as if stained with blood.

Kendis died here.

But why? Gladwell was her source. Had Will Harrison found her here? On the opposite wall to the tombstones Declan could see two burn marks, about an inch apart, a ragged line that looked like someone had taken a taser and scraped it along the wall.

‘There are taser marks on her upper chest, so I think she tried to fight whatever was happening, and then was zapped.’

Declan fought to breathe, his chest tightening. He needed to get out, but then stopped as he looked at a tombstone inscription on the far left of the top shelf. It read

Archibald Gladwell

1875-1941

Died aged 66 during the German bombing of Shoreditch 10th May 1941

Declan stared at the inscription. He couldn’t explain it, but something felt off here. Something Billy had said about the piece of paper Kendis had held came to mind.

‘Totters Lane is in Shoreditch. Nothing of note, got obliterated in the war. People literally vaporised.’

If Archie Gladwell was vaporised, how was there anything to place inside a coffin?

Declan ran a finger around the stone; the others looked wedged in, stuck in place for years, centuries even. This however had a minimum of debris in the grooves, as if someone had removed it recently. Glancing about, Declan picked up the metal cross, noting that one end had been flattened, like a crowbar. Inserting it into the side of the tombstone, Declan levered at it, surprised to see that the stone moved out easily, and with a minimum of fuss. Taking the stone and placing it to the side, Declan stared into the coffin hole.

There was a wrought iron safe facing him.

It was square and old, that was for sure. There was a bronze plaque on the top of it that read

MacNeale & Urban

Hamilton, OH

Declan stared at the old safe for a long moment; it looked like it had been concreted into the space, so there was no way to remove it. As well as that, it looked like an antique, and Declan wondered whether it had been installed there years before, maybe for an earlier member of the family. The one thing that caught Declan’s eye though was the dial. Most safes had a tumbler lock that used numbers to unlock the safe, spinning the dial left and right, hitting the number and then moving to the next. The MacNeale & Urban safe however didn’t have that. Instead, it had a dial that had twenty-six letters on it; this was a safe that relied on words, not numbers to open it.

Words.

‘Half a day, a bomb and a pack of scrabble letters would give me the truth behind Rattlestone.’

Declan turned to the small table. Pulling his backpack off his shoulder, Declan opened it up, removing the green felt bag, opening it up and scattering out the scrabble squares that spelled out Rattlestone. Declan rearranged the scrabble letters, stepping back as he stared at the two words facing him. Two words taken from Rattlestone’s name.

T O T T E R S L A N E

Malcolm Gladwell had named Rattlestone after the bombing.

Malcolm Gladwell had named Rattlestone.

Malcolm Gladwell was the true leader of Rattlestone.

And if Will Harrison had been trying to remove the leader, that meant he’d been taking his shot at Gladwell.

Turning to the dial, Declan moved the first letter to T. Then left, all the way to O. Then right to T and so on, swapping direction every time he reached a letter, hearing a faint click as he did so. Finally, as he reached the final E, there was a click and the safe door eased ajar. Pulling it open, Declan looked inside. There was a metal briefcase in there, the size matching the safes interior exactly. Pulling it out, Declan placed it on the table and opened it, staring down at the files, USB sticks and photos inside.

This was the secret history of Rattlestone. Most likely some kind of blackmail box that, if Gladwell was accused of anything would free him.

Pulling out one folder that caught his eye, he read the cover of it: BALKAN INCURSION 2015. Opening it up, he read the first few lines and then stopped, whistling.

He now knew who’d given up the schedule to militants; it was here in black and white. God knows what else would be in this briefcase.

Pulling out his phone, he started taking photos of the pages. Once done, and placing the briefcase back into the safe, Declan stopped, staring at the inside of the safe door. On it, written on a piece of faded and ancient paper, were instructions from 1872 for the safe’s owner on how to change the eleven letter combination.

Declan grinned. It seemed a shame to waste such an opportunity.

As he closed and re-locked the safe, placing the tombstone back in place, there was a noise outside; nothing more than an old man cycling past, using the route through the cemetery as a shortcut, but it was enough to remind Declan to get out before anyone arrived to check the wires. And, exiting the mausoleum, re-locking the door with more ease than he unlocked it and climbing over the metal fence again, Declan melted back into the gravestones before anyone could see him.

They had murdered Kendis Taylor in Malcolm Gladwell’s family mausoleum.

Now he had to work out whether it was by Gladwell himself.

In fact, if Declan had waited another ten minutes he could have asked him, because no