HUNTED
DS Hunter Kerr Investigations
Book Six
Michael Fowler
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A NOTE TO THE READER
ALSO BY MICHAEL FOWLER
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
On Glasgow’s Castle Street, rain fell in sheets, making driving conditions slow and precarious. The driver of the black cab crawling in nose-to-tail traffic was extremely nervous. It wasn’t the weather or the slow-moving traffic making him anxious. Seated in the back of his cab was a serial-killer, Billy Wallace, clamped between two prison guards. His left eye was badly swollen, and he had a nasty gash above it that had been temporarily Steri-Stripped. Dried blood streaked most of the left side of his face, making it look a lot worse than it was, though the prison nurse had determined he needed an X-ray because it was a head injury, hence this morning’s journey across the city to the hospital.
As the taxi crept towards the rear entrance of Glasgow Royal Infirmary, the driver released a heavy but grateful sigh. He couldn’t wait to offload his passengers. The fifteen-minute drive here had felt like an eternity. He pulled up sharply in the yellow hatched area, directly outside the automatic double-doors, quickly releasing the rear passenger door to let out one of the guards.
The courtyard was one huge puddle and as the prison officer jumped out, his boots sploshed down into two inches of standing water, forcing a curse from his tightened lips. In a fit of temper, he reached in, grabbed the sleeve of Billy’s sweat top and pulled him out of the warm cab to join him in the cold and damp.
As the second guard paid and waited for his receipt, Billy Wallace straightened his back, lifting his face to the sky. It had been eighteen months since he had last experienced the rain, and it felt good. Billy lowered his head and held out his cuffed hands. “These cuffs are too tight, boss. Can’t you slacken them?” he asked.
“Another hour and you’ll be back in your nice warm cell, and they’ll be off, Billy,” replied the burly prison officer, tightening his hold and guiding him towards the automatic doors.
As the doors swished open, the sudden squeal of tyres grabbed their attention, and they snapped their heads back in the direction of the gated entrance. Speeding through the gatehouse towards them was a black Range Rover, its engine screaming. It skidded sideways to a halt yards away, throwing up a wall of water and soaking them. Before the prison guards had any time to react, the back doors flew open and two men in ski-masks jumped out. They were dressed in black fatigues and sweatshirts, and both were pointing guns directly at the heads of the two officers. Within a split-second, the armed men were in the guards’ faces. One of them drew back his gun and side-swiped the guard holding Billy across the face. He instantly released his grip and slumped to the floor, letting out a cry as his head smacked the wet concrete.
The masked man immediately switched his attention to the other guard, jamming the barrel into his forehead. “Keys, now,” he growled in a broad Glaswegian accent.
The sight of the two men in ski masks was menacing enough, but the burning hatred in the eyes of the one pressing the gun momentarily froze the standing prison officer.
“I said fucking keys, now. I won’t say it again,” the masked man yelled.
This jolted the guard out of his hypnotic state and he grabbed at the long chain fastened to his belt, fumbling out his bunch of keys from a pocket. He offered them up, his hand shaking.
The masked man lowered his gun and prodded the guard in his chest. “Unlock the cuffs,” he said, flicking his head at Billy.
Billy Wallace thrust his hands forward.
After a couple of seconds of nervous juggling, the officer inserted one of the keys into Billy’s handcuffs and released them. They fell to the floor with a metallic splash.
Billy and his two accomplices exchanged quick glances, upon which the one threatening the guard lunged forward, whipping the prison officer across the face with the gun’s butt and dumping him on the ground to join his unconscious colleague.
Free from his shackles, Billy spurred into action. He sprinted around the front of the Range Rover and threw himself into the passenger seat. The two masked men leapt into the back. Seconds later, the car was fish-tailing its way back out through the gates, tearing away from Glasgow city centre.
CHAPTER TWO
A large throng of mourners had gathered outside Barnwell Crematorium for the funeral of Barry Newstead. Many were talking, but in hushed voices. Hunter Kerr was among them, waiting to pay his respects and say his final goodbye, and he allowed his gaze to drift among the gathering. He knew the vast majority, either by name or sight. Many of them had been his colleagues as well as Barry’s. He noticed that some had put on a few pounds since he’d last seen them, and for some the years hadn’t been kind. He knew it was this job that had been responsible for that. It aged many. He had seen a statistic somewhere that many cops didn’t get to see beyond five years after they had retired. Barry hadn’t even seen that. Though his death hadn’t been natural; Barry had been murdered two weeks ago, and his killer was currently in prison awaiting trial.
Hunter felt his chest tighten as images of that night once again visited him. The sight of Barry being tossed into the air by the speeding car — deliberately mown down — and then immediately after, when Hunter had dashed to his aid and seen his crumpled form, knowing he was dying, had re-run itself inside his head perpetually. The doctor at the hospital had told him that there had been nothing anyone could have done for him — he had been too badly injured. A well-meaning sympathetic gesture, no doubt, but it hadn’t been any consolation. That night, he had not only lost a close colleague but a good friend as well.
Taking a deep breath, Hunter held it for several seconds and then released it slowly, pulling back his composure while continuing to scan the line. The sadness was palpable. Many of them met Hunter’s gaze and exchanged a sorrowful nod of recognition before dragging away their eyes. Hunter
hated funerals at the best of times, but police funerals he always found sadder than most. A series of murmurs grabbed his attention, and he followed turned heads to see the funeral cortege coming towards them. It was led by four mounted officers in full regalia. Hunter felt his chest lurch and he fought to suppress a sob. He caught the same look in a couple of faces nearby — people he knew, hardened by experience, who normally wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the thought of death, had watering eyes. He dropped his look to the ground. He was finding it difficult to hold himself together, and he took a series of breaths and watched the shadow of the procession pass across him.
The shuffling of feet forced Hunter to raise his head — a signal the mourners were starting to head into the chapel. Into the corner of his eye ambled his working partner, Grace Marshall. He turned and exchanged a pained smile with her.
It was a good gathering. Hunter managed to find standing space against the back wall with Grace and several others. Those following behind were shown into a side room where a large screen had been set up to allow them to follow the service. Hunter wasn’t surprised by the crowd. Barry’s reputation had gone before him. Now it’s over. Sure, he would be talked about for a while, and the coverage of the forthcoming trial for his murder would be a reminder of what had happened, but then the memory of him would be forgotten by many — until the next police funeral.
‘Over the Rainbow’, the version sung by Eva Cassidy, struck up and the congregation took their seats. Hunter again found himself fighting back his sorrow as the song washed through his thoughts. He distracted himself by searching the aisles. To his right he spotted his boss, Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate. She, like Grace, looked elegant. Her auburn hair was arranged in a chignon, and she was wearing an expensive-looking black coat with a velvet collar. Her sombre gaze was glued to Barry’s casket. Hunter wasn’t surprised. It had been her ex-husband who had killed Barry, though he hadn’t been the intended target. She had. It had been Hunter who had first heard and seen the speeding car coming towards them as they had exited the pub that night, and he had managed to throw himself out of its path and shout a warning. Barry had been the one who had reacted the fastest, leaping at Dawn, bundling her to safety. But in doing so, he had taken the full impact and it had ended his life. That act of courage had been his swan-song. Hunter knew from brief conversation with Dawn since that she still bore the brunt of the guilt for what had happened a fortnight ago, even though she wasn’t to blame.
Sudden movement at the periphery of Hunter’s vision made him refocus his gaze, and he caught sight of a dark suited man with iron-grey hair taking to the pulpit.
It was a Celebration of Life Service, the first that Hunter had been to. The Celebrant delivered Barry’s life story in such upbeat fashion and with such humour that it was as if he was regaling Barry’s living years in a pub environment. Everyone laughed at the anecdotes — even Hunter, who had heard them many times before — and everyone shed a tear at his passing. As the Celebrant said goodbye to Barry, and Frank Sinatra started singing ‘My Way’, the pain of grief detonated through Hunter and he started to weep.
CHAPTER THREE
In his car Hunter slackened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt collar, tugging it away from his neck. His airway was constricted and the invisible band around his chest still felt tight. He had dealt with a lot of death over the years, even personally, with the loss of his first girlfriend who had been murdered, but none had affected him like this. He took a deep breath and turned on the engine, his concentration diverted by Grace adjusting the passenger seat to her required position. Then he watched her pulling down the visor to check her image in its mirror.
Running her fingers through her dark curls, she appeared pleased with what she saw and pushed the visor back into place. “Good to go?” she said, fastening her seatbelt.
“Not really.” Hunter took another deep breath. “To be honest, Grace, I’m not really feeling up to this one bit. If it had been for any person other than Barry, I would’ve made an excuse not to go to his wake.”
Grace reached across and gently clasped his wrist. “I understand what you’re saying, but people will expect you to be there. Everyone knows how close you two were. You were his buddy as well as his sergeant.”
Hunter sighed. “That’s what’s especially hard. It was bad enough back in the chapel. Now I’m going to have to go through it all again.”
“Barry would want you to be there.” Grace gave his wrist a squeeze. “I know this is hurting, but you need to make an appearance. There’ll be enough people around for cover if you want to disappear early.”
Hunter nodded. “I’ve already thought of that. If you don’t mind, I’m going to show my face, have a shandy and a bit of food, and then leave. Are you okay with that?”
She let go of his wrist. “That’s fine by me. I’ve got to finish off sorting out my desk anyway.”
“Yeah, me too.” Two months ago, the Force had opened its new multi-million-pound training centre on a nearby industrial estate, and the state-of-the-art building was now going to house Barnwell’s Major Incident Team. Five weeks ago, Hunter had been given responsibility for overseeing the move to the new incident room, but that had been postponed because of the last investigation. That had been recently wrapped up, and yesterday afternoon Detective Superintendent Leggate had called Hunter into her office and, apologising because of the circumstances, she had told him that she had just taken a call from the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime), who had insisted that she make the move to the new facility happen as soon as possible. Hunter had seen the anxiety in her face as she had told him and had felt for her. He had wanted to take a snipe at the ACC but refrained, because he knew the reality was that in spite of the tragic death of a colleague, the job had to move on. Biting his tongue, he had left Dawn’s office reassuring her he would make a start on it once Barry’s funeral was over. And although he hadn’t meant that it would be immediately today, he had already decided that morning that throwing himself into the move would be a timely distraction from the sadness of the day.
Barry’s wake was being held in the centuries-old George and Dragon pub in the quaint village of Wentworth. It had been his favourite watering-hole; Hunter had spent many a happy hour with him there over the years, laughing and joking at things that had gone on at work, listening to his anecdotes, discussing cases, and, most importantly, counselling one another, like cops did over a beer after a shit day. Ironically and sadly, it had been in the rear car park of this pub where Barry had met his demise. Yet in spite of that, Sue, his partner, had determined it should be the venue for Barry’s final farewell because she knew he would have wanted that.
The car park was full by the time Hunter and Grace got there. Hunter saw the last available place being taken as he finished his circuit, but he recognised the car pulling into the slot. It belonged to Tony Bullars. He was driving and Mike Sampson was his passenger. Both detectives were part of his syndicate.
Hunter pulled in tightly behind and double-parked, jumping out to greet them. “I’m not staying long, guys. I’m only having one and then I’m going. I’ve got to go back to the office to move my stuff to the new place.”
“We’re not staying long ourselves, so we’ll follow you out,” Tony replied, fob-locking his car.
As the four of them made their way to the side door, Hunter felt his chest tightening again. It was right here where Barry had been killed.
As if sensing his anxiety, Grace slipped an arm through his and said, “Let me buy my favourite Sergeant a drink.”
Her light-hearted gesture was instantly soothing, and Hunter opened the door for them all.
They entered the small snug. The place was heaving — customers were spilling out into a corridor. It looked as if everyone who had been to the crematorium was here.
“We’ve no chance of getting a drink here,” Hunter said, looking at the swamped bar. “Come on, let’s go through to the main bar.”
They
had to squeeze their way past the drinkers, nodding to a few as they pressed forward. Finally pushing their way through into the front bar, Hunter saw it was just as busy as the snug. People waiting to be served were at least four deep, and the few staff behind the bar seemed overwhelmed. Over the sea of recognisable heads, Hunter spotted Sue Siddons at the far end where the buffet was, a glass of wine in her hand. She was huddled between two larger-than-life retired detectives Hunter knew, whose jaws were going ten-to-the-dozen. He guessed they would be spewing out their exploits from their working days with Barry, and although Sue’s face wore an interested expression, he somehow knew it was false.
Hunter nudged Grace. “It looks as if Sue needs rescuing. Get me a Bitter Shandy, will you, and then come and join us?” He weaved his way between those waiting to be served and stepped up to where Sue was. The two retired detectives were still jabbering away, but it was more between themselves than with Sue. He stepped into the middle, separating the guys from her. Following a quick ‘Hello’ and ‘long time, no see,’ Hunter said, “Do you mind if I have a brief word with Sue, guys?”
His request did the trick, and the two pensioners offered their condolences, said their goodbyes, and sidled away, picking up their conversation before melding into the throng.
Hunter met Sue’s red-rimmed eyes. “They’re lovely guys, but I’m guessing it’s not what you want right now? Am I right?”
Sue nodded. “You’re right, they are lovely, and I know they’re only trying to make me feel better, but all I want to do is hide away in a corner and drown my sorrows. I’m not in the mood to chat with anyone at the moment. Maybe in a few weeks I’ll feel different.” She stroked his arm. “Present company excluded, of course.” Pulling away her hand, she took a slurp of her wine.
Hunter gazed down at her, recalling the first time he had clapped eyes on Sue. It was a little over eighteen months ago, during the ‘Demon’ investigation. A body had been discovered on the old Manvers Colliery site, and Sue had contacted Barry and told him that she believed it was her fifteen-year-old daughter, Carol, who had gone missing in 1993. Barry had been retired from the job then, but he had contacted Hunter and requested that Hunter go and see her. He had explained to Hunter that he had investigated Carol Siddons’ disappearance back then, but because she had been a difficult child in care, at the time of her going missing, no one among the hierarchy had taken her disappearance seriously and he had been pulled off the enquiry. Carol was still on the missing list when Hunter and Grace had followed up Barry’s request.
Hunted: A psychotic killer is out for revenge... (THE DS HUNTER KERR INVESTIGATIONS Book 6) Page 1
