The Mo$cow Whale

By SJ Torkard

What should have been a routine investigation quickly becomes a fight for her life. Buckley is forced to rely on her old training and, if she can keep her past at bay, use every ounce of cunning and martial prowess at her disposal to stay one step ahead of the bad guys. The only trouble is she doesn't really know who they are. Jen Buckley is in for a challenge unlike anything she has ever faced. Survival is far from certain, but the cost of failure is too high to consider an alternative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667846057

Book preview

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© 2022, S. J. Torkard.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-66784-6-057 (eBook)

For those who gave their lives,

without gaining the solace of eternal peace.

For those still reliving the horrors, every day and every night.

Long after the guns are silenced.

Long after the treaties are signed.

Life will never be the same for those still giving.

S. J. Torkard

Contents

PROLOGUE

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EPILOGUE

CONTACT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

THREE YEARS AGO

British Army – URGENT DISPATCH

From: Field Unit Zebra-3

Location: Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

Date: 10 April

Subject: Raid on Taliban safe house frees British Prisoner

Overnight raid by Special Forces located Captain Jen Buckley - Army Intelligence Corps.

Captain Buckley’s patrol was reported missing-in-action on 12 October following Taliban ambush, twenty miles east of Kandahar. No other survivors.

Following medical assessment, Captain Buckley transferred to Bastion military hospital in critical but stable condition. END

1

PRESENT DAY

IN her nightmares, which came every night now, she tried to fight. She tried to run.

It had been a trap, and they’d walked right into it.

The deafening roar of an explosion. The power is astonishing. Ripping through her body. Blowing back her hair. Sending a spike of pain into her ears. A hail storm of machine gun fire engulfs them. She and Wilson exchange a look of panic. His shoulder explodes. It rains flesh and blood.

He goes down. Stays down.

Through the smoke, she sees Lorimer. Early thirties. By far the oldest in the squad. Battle hardened, powerful, ignoring the hell around them. He signals to her; she reads his lips.

‘Follow me.’

Buckley nods back; shouting through the din would be useless. Her face is searing hot.

‘I’m hit! I’m hit!’ she screams, diving for cover.

She glances back up at Lorimer. Machine gun fire rips open his body. He is instantly killed.

Buckley awoke with a start.

It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real anymore.

Her head pounded from a proper hangover. She squinted, and slowly the fog began to lift.

Where the hell am I?

Rapidly, she identified four exits. The main doorway was fifteen feet to her left. Two large windows sat to her right, which opened outwards. Directly ahead: a set of French doors. These would slide open, right to left, onto an open terrace.

Buckley didn’t need these instincts anymore.

But old habits die hard.

The man in bed next to her stirred; he was close, but not touching her. His breathing was shallow and regular; difficult to fake. He was asleep, she was sure.

Daylight illuminated the room through narrow gaps between the window blinds. Buckley swallowed, as her stomach churned and twisted. She lifted a heavy hand, shielding her eyes from the glare, trying to calm the headache pounding away behind them.

The room was large open-plan. A thousand square feet. The abundance of space comforted her. After months of captivity in a tiny locked cell, she avoided enclosed places.

At one end of the room was a functional kitchen, with the mid-section arranged as a sprawling lounge, joined to the bedroom where they lay. Boys’ toys littered the place: a mock race car seat and steering wheel in front of an oversized, wafer-thin TV; a red Ducati motorcycle gleamed like a museum exhibit.

This was a bachelor pad for a player who used women like he used his other toys.

Buckley glanced at the man: asleep on his chest, face half buried in the pillow, breathing gently. She hardly remembered meeting him.

‘I need to stop drinking,’ she said to herself.

The place reeked; that disgusting smell of a pub after closing time. Stale beer and cigarettes. An ashtray on the bedside table overflowed with butts, all smeared with her red lipstick. The burnt-ash odour was so overpowering it made Buckley’s stomach heave and roll.

Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood slowly, chilled by the cold hardwood floor on the soles of her bare feet.

She tiptoed to the kitchen, with a familiar apprehension, not wanting to wake her one-night stand. It was better that way. She didn’t know his name and she didn’t want to.

Green digits on the microwave showed 9.50 A.M. Her mouth was dry. She took a bottle of pills from her bag, and downed some with a large glass of tap water. The medication didn’t help; the alcohol binges were getting worse again.

Buckley gathered up her clothes from where they’d been hastily thrown over the motorcycle a few hours ago. She headed to the bathroom, closing the door gently and switching on the light. She winced as the sudden brightness sent another spike of pain to her temples.

On the wall above twin crystal basins hung a large, oval mirror. Her emerald-green eyes, puffy and bloodshot, could still glare back in defiance. Her auburn hair looked good. Cut into a sleek bob; shorter at the back and razor sharp at the front; precisely framing the ivory skin of a now imperfect face. The wires in her jaw had been removed after only six weeks, and the scars long since healed. Her broken nose remained the only physical reminder of the ordeal. After two painful operations, she could at least breathe easily again.

Inside, she longed to forget what had happened to her.

Buckley slammed her palm against the mirror, not caring if she woke the man next door. Unable to fear or enjoy anything anymore. Numbed by her trauma.

I hate my life.

Once her physical scars had healed, Buckley had gone back home. But it hadn’t worked.

She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want her suffering spelled out. Her ordeal had stolen away any pleasure from an ordinary life: reading a newspaper, chatting with friends, a walk in the countryside. And love. There was no love anymore; only darkness. Every moment like a cruel reminder of happier times.

She’d asked to return to work. A desk job; something to occupy her mind. After a lot of hand wringing, the army had said no. Following exposure to trauma, protocols required a set period away from military duty. For extreme trauma, that meant an extremely long time. It seemed to her that the army also wanted to forget. Their remoteness had hurt her all over again, after spending nine months in a hellhole, chained to a metal bedstead.

As a route back into society, the medical team had suggested the police force. With no better option, Buckley had eventually agreed. What she’d needed most was to keep busy, to stop her thoughts galloping back to Afghanistan.

The doctors had found her an agreeable oasis to live; a place full of beauty and history, and with little crime. The city of York. Halfway between Britain’s two grandest capitals, London and Edinburgh. The town would be a pleasant and restful place to mend; if she ever could.

The sergeant’s exam had been a cinch. As a former military intelligence officer, she was over-qualified. Under normal circumstances, she would have made Inspector by now.

An irritating buzz echoed around the small bathroom. She withdrew her hand from the mirror, reached into her bag, and pulled out a smartphone, vibrating in silent mode.

She held it to her ear, grimacing at her thumping head.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning, Buckley. Why didn’t you answer your phone?’

Curtis Fry. Her colleague, and friend.

She thought for a moment before answering. ‘It’s my day off, isn’t it?’

‘Not anymore. Holleran’s going mental. He’s asked for you personally. You need to get down here.’

‘Is it about the car?’

‘We’re in deep shit this time, Buckley.’

‘You worry too much, Fry. And anyway, I was driving at the time. Not you.’

‘Whatever. Where are you? I’ll come get you.’

Buckley glanced around the bathroom. There were no clues, so she studied the Maps app on her phone and breathed a sigh of relief.

Not too far.

‘I’ll send you my location. Stand by.’

She transferred a map link and ended the call, then slipped back into her clothes from the night before.

Despite everything Jen Buckley had been through, she still radiated a cool, poised elegance. At least on the outside. There’d be no walk of shame this morning. Fry was okay. One of a select few she really trusted.

Buckley eased open the bathroom door, and slipped back into the bedroom. Her date was still asleep. The red soles of her favourite Louboutins signalled to her. She smirked at where they’d landed after she’d kicked them off a few hours earlier.

Shoes on the table; a bad omen in many parts of the world.

It’s bad luck to be superstitious.

She put her brave face on, grabbed the shoes, and headed for the door. Without one iota of guilt, she lifted the man’s exquisite Hermes leather jacket from the hook and draped it over her shoulders. It felt wonderful against her skin.

A second later, the door latched shut, and Jen Buckley was gone.

2

Buckley sheltered under a small awning at the entrance to an apartment block. The weather was cloudy and damp, and a stiff breeze held the threat of a storm to come. She pulled up the soft leather collar on the jacket.

It wasn’t long before a police patrol car pulled up next to her. The front bumper had a hole the size of a fist punched through it and appeared only to be clinging to the rest of the vehicle by silver duct tape.

She yanked the passenger door handle and climbed in.

‘If it’s about the car, just let me do the talking,’ she said, as Fry gunned the engine. ‘Got any paracetamol?’

‘I’m not your bloody pharmacist, Buckley,’ Fry replied, before reaching into the centre console and tossing her a box. ‘Here.’

‘Thanks.’

She popped two pills from the blister pack, and drained half a bottle of spring water from the door pocket. She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening to the radio.

…And in other news, the London Stock Exchange halted trading earlier today after a suspected cyber attack. A spokesman said the anti-virus and firewall technology performed exceptionally well, and back-up systems were online within ninety minutes.

‘Shut that racket off, Fry. My head is pounding.’

‘Self-inflicted,’ he said. ‘No sympathy.’ He turned off the radio. ‘So, who was the unlucky guy this time?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ she replied, rubbing her temples.

‘You know what they’re calling you, back at the station?’

‘I really don’t care.’

‘You can’t keep doing this, Buckley.’

‘Doing what? People should mind their own damn business. I’m just trying to get through each day, the same as everyone else.’

‘Listen, I’m on your side, but you need to get your shit together.’

‘I know, Fry. It just feels like trying to unscramble an egg.’

They took a seat outside Commander Archie Holleran’s office.

‘Remember what happened last time?’ said Fry. ‘What Holleran said he’d do if we wrecked another patrol car? I need this job. Norma is pregnant.’

‘Again? You guys should get another hobby.’ Buckley leaned her head back against the wall and rubbed her temples.

‘I don’t need a hobby. I need a job. This job. I’ve only ever been a police officer. What the hell else could I do?’

‘It’ll be fine, Fry. Just let me do the talking.’

Holleran had a fearsome reputation. There was no middle ground. His supporters asserted he was tough but fair, while his detractors likened him to a playground bully. Certainly, he was an unconventional leader; an autocratic boss who demanded excellence from his officers and was known for his blunt delivery of criticism in two languages: English and profanity.

Buckley walked to a vending machine across the corridor.

She selected a large Americano, and pulled the steaming cup from the machine the second it was ready. She blew on it a couple of times to cool it down and took a sip, savouring the taste.

‘This is good, Fry. Want one?’

‘I rarely eat or drink directly before an execution.’

She gulped more of the hot coffee, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Holleran’s not that bad. I’m pretty sure his heart is in the right place.’

‘Now I’m convinced your brain is totally screwed up.’

She smiled. ‘Yeah, maybe it is.’

Buckley sat back down and continued to sip her drink, as muffled voices filtered through Holleran’s door. There was angry shouting, which was Holleran’s way. He liked to shout. Buckley figured he was just letting off steam, de-stressing. She’d been shouted at plenty, and worse. Shouting didn’t bother her one bit.

Abruptly, Holleran’s door swung open and Detective Inspector Gordon Tidd stepped out and hurried off down the corridor, both of his arms covered in hard plaster.

‘Hey, Tidd. What happened to you?’ she called after him.

He stopped and spun, giving her a dark look. ‘None of your concern, Buckley. Just focus on not screwing up for a change.’

Holleran shouted from inside his office. ‘Enough of the idle chatter. You two, get in here!’

Buckley and Fry edged inside and closed the door behind them.

Holleran stood up from behind his desk. His stocky frame filled the room. A tie hung loosely around his neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His head glistened with sweat through the few strands of dark hair remaining. At fifty-eight, he was still rumoured to be working fourteen hours a day.

He glowered at Buckley. ‘What you did yesterday was an extremely intuitive reaction.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What you should have done is bring my vehicle back in one fucking piece for a change. You don’t have to pay for the damage. I do.’

Fry spoke up, with caution. ‘But, sir. Buckley ended a high-speed urban chase that was endangering the public. It was a textbook PIT manoeuvre.’

Holleran ignored him. ‘Let’s not bullshit, Buckley. Your military record doesn’t cut you any slack here. You need to be doing things just as good or better than the next guy.’

‘I’m doing my very best, sir.’

‘Don’t fuck with me. I’m still buried in paperwork after that domestic you attended last month.’

‘He was beating his pregnant wife, sir.’

‘Then arrest him. Bring the shitbag in. Throw him in a cell. That’s what I pay you for.’

‘That’s what I did.’

‘But why did he have three broken ribs?’

She looked away and shrugged. ‘Resisting arrest. Fell down the stairs. It was an accident.’

Fry added. ‘It’s true, sir. I was there. Witnessed the whole thing.’

‘Zip it, Fry. You’re lucky to even be here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Buckley, you’ve been passed over for promotion three times. Twice by me. You could be one hell of an officer if you’d only stay the hell out of trouble for five minutes. Now I have another problem. An urgent case has just come in, and there is absolutely nobody else available.’ Holleran winced. ‘I still can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’ve got no choice, Buckley. As of right now, you are promoted to Acting Detective Inspector.’

Buckley looked up, wide-eyed. ‘But, sir—’

‘No buts. You’re up, Buckley.’

‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’

‘Join the club. You think I’m prepared for all the crap I have to deal with every day? This should have been Tidd’s case. But the damn fool came off his bike careering down a mountain. Who the hell takes stupid risks like that?’

Buckley wetted her lips, and gave a jerky nod of assent.

Holleran continued. ‘Tidd was first choice. You were the substitute. He’s out of action. So, like it or not, you’re the new number one.’

He picked up a sheet of paper from a large pile on his desk and handed it to her.

‘This case needs to be handled diplomatically and expediently. Are you familiar with those concepts, Buckley?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She shuffled in place.

‘You’d better be,’ said Holleran, almost unconsciously, his eyes on Buckley. She looked away. ‘The body of some poor chap was recovered yesterday from the city centre, directly outside York Minster.’ His look turned to a glower. ‘Are you listening, Buckley?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘The esteemed York Minster police force took a whole bloody day to report it.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘Ridiculous. They’re little more than security guards.’ Holleran seethed, slamming his fist onto the table. Buckley’s coffee cup juddered towards the edge; she snatched it up before it fell. ‘I had to bollock their Inspector personally. We didn’t even know about the death until late last night.’

Buckley assessed Holleran, as he continued to rant. He sweated freely despite the cool room temperature, consistently mopping his face and neck with a large white handkerchief. The final two fingers on his right hand missing, after they were blown off by a roadside bomb during Gulf War one. Like her, he’d been a soldier; he’d worn the uniform; he’d been in the field. She respected that.

Still, her senses tingled. There was something else; something he wasn’t telling her. She sipped her coffee.

‘Get your arse down there,’ said Holleran. ‘Make sure we receive all the crime scene information, and then expediently close this case. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly clear, sir.’

He turned to her, and for the first time, he hesitated.

Here it comes. What has he been holding back?

‘And one last thing.’

Buckley’s eyes narrowed, her brain on high alert and ready to process the new information.

‘The deceased is a Russian citizen. Mikhail Covak. But don’t let that distract you. State-sponsored murder doesn’t happen here. This is York, not bloody Belgravia.’

‘Yes, sir. This is York. I understand.’

‘And don’t get smart with me, young lady. The press are crawling down my throat, and the politicians are up my arse. Any moment now they’ll meet in the middle.’ He mopped his brow again. ‘This case is our top priority. It could go very public very quickly, and I don’t have a budget for that. The media have already coined a name for the case, after the street where the deceased last ate.’

‘Where was that, sir?’

‘At a restaurant, on Swinegate.’

3

BUCKLEY stood outside a smart Edwardian home in York’s exclusive Holgate