Hunted: BookShots Read Online Free PDF Page A

looked the part, but that was just it – he was playing a role. He endured the constant nagging guilt of knowing that his appearance was a disguise, whereas Cookie had been living it for real.
    ‘We know Cookie was registered with a night-centre in St Martin’s and a Salvation Army hostel in Westminster,’ Claridge had said. ‘According to the outreach workers who spoke to the police, he had the possibility of a studio flat in Wood Green. Now, I’m assuming that these people recruit under false pretences, probably with the promise of a pay packet at the end of the hunt. Possibly Cookie wanted it for this flat, so that he could get back on his feet.’
    ‘I’ll need a new identity. Can you arrange that?’
    Claridge came up trumps. ‘From now on, you’re Captain Steven Hodges, Royal Marine commando. He was deceased, but I’ve been able to un-decease him in your honour. He’s the same age, same blood type, no photographs or fingerprints on record.’ He handed over the record. ‘Here, study this.’
    It was the last time they’d met. Two days later, with his new identity fully absorbed, Shelley had left his home in Stepney Green, kissing Lucy first and then Frankie the dog, before bidding them both goodbye, departing as David Shelley and entering a new life on the street as Captain Steve Hodges.
    It was almost worrying how quickly he’d adapted. As Claridge had said, the streets were full of ex-servicemen, and they all liked to say that sleeping rough was nothing compared to bedding down in the freezing cold of an Afghan night. Shelley had to agree: Afghanistan was the most hostile environment he had ever known, roasting hot by day, bitterly cold by night, a terrain marked by razor-sharp rocks and stones and thistles that cut to the bone.
    The difference was that in Afghanistan you were mostly all the same, whether you were bedding down in the scrub or in the relative luxury of a cot back at operating base. You weren’t crouched beneath a bridge, trying to make a hobo stove and listening to the pop of champagne corks from a floating restaurant yards away. In the forces you looked out for your fellow man, it was practically the only reason you got up in the morning; you didn’t step over him on your way out of the Tube station going to work. You didn’t ignore him. It was that which made street life tougher than life in the forces. The men and women on the street sometimes liked to pretend there was a sense of solidarity, but they all knew it was dog eat dog. You were alone on the street. In the forces you could depend on two things: your friend was your friend, and your enemy was your enemy. Homeless, you fought on all fronts, not least the gnawing of your own soul.
    After a couple of months, Shelley had got to know the street teams. These were volunteers who came out at night, checking on people’s welfare and taking men and women to the shelters. Shelley took a bed in the St Martin’s shelter when he could, getting to know the street people. Watching, waiting, observing.
    Now, after four months on the streets, he believed he’d identified a possible scout – a man he thought might be recruiting for the hunt. He was a rat-faced character by the name of Colin, who hung around the homeless and made a nuisance of himself at shelters. And he seemed particularly interested in a bloke called Barron.
    Shelley had been aware of Barron for some time. Like Shelley, Barron hadn’t been on the street for long. Unlike Shelley, he’d made his presence felt, constantly bragging about being an ex-Para. What was the old joke? How do you tell a Para? You don’t have to. He’ll tell you.
    Barron was brawny. A bluebird tattoo peeped from under the collar of his hooded sweatshirt and he was missing a couple of teeth. He was also, as far as Shelley could tell, a bully and a thug. Queue for the kitchen? Barron barged in. One cot remaining? That was for Barron. Pretty female volunteer? Barron was the one leering at