“Neither can I, Hunter. But it is, and I need to put something in place fast. And by fast, I mean in the next few hours. We know Billy knows where your mum and dad live, from when he was down here before he was captured, and it’s now over twenty-four hours since his escape. He could even be down here right now for all we know. I’ve already got a patrol going over to their place. The ideal scenario is that they leave as soon as and stay somewhere else for now.”
“You mean like come and stay with us?”
Dawn pursed her lips. “To be honest, Hunter, I don’t even think that’s a good idea. We can’t be certain he doesn’t know where you live as well. We don’t know what he’s been up to while he’s been inside. He’s obviously planned his escape well, so we can’t take any chances.”
Hunter thought for a moment. “There’s Beth’s parents’, but they live on Sark, and I know for sure their house isn’t big enough for all of us. In fact, it’ll probably not even take me, Beth, and the boys, never mind Mum and Dad. It’s only a two-bedroom cottage.”
“Okay, Hunter, until I can get a handle on what’s happening up in Scotland, I’m going to have to make some decisions you’re not going to like. Firstly, I’m going to arrange for you all to go to a hotel. I know this is going to be a real disruption for you, and if there was any way around this, believe me, I would take it, but right now I have no room for manoeuvre. So, I need you to put in a phone call to your mum and dad and tell them what’s happening and get them to pack a bag for a couple of days. Then go home and speak with Beth. I’m going to arrange for someone to help your parents while you sort things out with her. In the meantime, I’m going to have security measures put in both your homes and sort out a hotel for you all.” Dawn Leggate took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about this, Hunter, but I don’t want to be the person held responsible for anything happening to your family. Billy Wallace has already tried to kill your dad once and failed. I want to keep it at that.”
CHAPTER SIX
At the Doncaster Car-Hire place, Billy Wallace took back his forged driving licence, scribbled an indecipherable signature on the hire agreement form and then handed over £180 in twenties to the pretty sales assistant in exchange for a set of keys. The car he had hired was a Vauxhall Astra: nothing too ostentatious and something which would easily merge with traffic.
Following the young lady sashaying across the forecourt to where his car was waiting, Billy fought to hide the lustful stare breaking out across his face; as his gaze fell upon the blonde-haired girl’s pert bottom, clad in a pair of tight dark blue trousers, he could feel himself starting to get hard, and he patted the bundle of notes in his pocket, knowing he had enough money to be able to afford something like it later. It had been almost eighteen months since he had last felt a woman’s body against his.
First, though, he told himself as he unlocked the car, you’ve got something more pressing.
It had taken him almost twenty hours to make it to Doncaster. Following his escape, he hadn’t stayed long at the flat where they had taken him. Within a matter of hours, he had decided it wasn’t a safe place for him to remain. The woman whose place it was was a right mouthy bitch, and as a jumpy as a frog, and he’d only stayed the night, doing what he needed to yesterday morning and then high-tailing it out of there. He’d caught the bus to Edinburgh and then the train to Berwick-upon-Tweed, leaving the station to get a change of clothing and some stuff to change his appearance, before returning back to the station and catching a train to Doncaster. It had left him knackered, and right now, as desperate as he was to catch some much-needed shut-eye, before he got his head down, he needed to check something out before finding a motel.
It was a long, straight street, and although there were a few parked cars, and trees at regular intervals to hide among, he was worried that staying here for any length of time might expose him. Lowering the peak of his baseball cap to hide more of his face, Billy Wallace took out his mobile and pinned it to his ear; anyone passing his parked car would merely think he had pulled over to take a call.
It had taken him a good ten minutes of driving around the estate before he had located what he had been searching for. The last time he had been here was eighteen months ago, and had it not been for the police car parked outside he might never have found the house. He had driven past at first, with his heart racing, but seeing the police car empty had reduced his anxiety and he had driven to the next street, pulling up to think about his next move: he had not done all this planning to be thwarted at this stage. After a moment’s deliberation he had the bones of a strategy, and he returned to the street, coasting past the semi to get a closer look. Eyeing the front, he confirmed to himself that this was definitely the right house and let out a chortle: the last time he had been here he had thrown the dead body of a police informant through the lounge window and scared the shit out of his target.
The police car was still unoccupied as he passed. He parked up a hundred metres from his target’s house, behind a small car, where he still had a good view. All that had been twenty minutes ago. Now he was watching the uniformed cop loading a large suitcase into the boot of his car, as Jock Kerr — as he now called himself — and his wife appeared at the top of their drive. He saw Jock casually look his way and he instinctively ducked down in his seat. Seconds later, as he lifted his head, the back doors of the police car were closing and the cop was just climbing into the driver’s side. Starting the engine of his hired vehicle, Billy watched the marked car drive off. When it had gone thirty yards, he pulled away from the kerb and followed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hunter heaved the second of their cases onto the king-size bed and ran his eyes around the family room they had been given. His initial thought was that the suite wasn’t bad for a budget hotel — it looked as though it had been recently refurbished — but at the same time he was hoping their stay here wasn’t going to be for too long; no matter how nice or comfortable any hotel is, there is nothing better than being in your own home, he thought.
He rested his roaming eyes on Jonathan and Daniel, who were grappling one another for control of the TV remote, and he was about to tell them to pack it in when Beth piped up, “There’re not enough hangers.” He turned to see her stood by the fitted wardrobe, its door wide open. Her face was set tight. The look she gave him was one of exasperation. Just one of many similar looks she had thrown his way since he had broken the news. During the last three hours, he had repeatedly apologised for the inconvenience, adding, on several occasions, that “it wouldn’t be for long,” but it hadn’t appeased her. All Beth had returned was, “But why is this affecting us? This is to do with your dad.” He had done his best to explain his gaffer’s concern about the safety of them all, but from her reign of silence during packing he knew she wasn’t impressed.
To add to matters, her enforced absence had not gone down well with her Practice Manager when she had rung him. Even as she had explained to him the circumstances, his only concern had been how they were going to manage her patients. She had almost slammed the phone down after ending the call, swearing under her breath. Beth very rarely swore.
Hunter knew this was going to need some emergency repair to their relationship once it was over. Meeting her eyes and offering up a placatory smile, he responded, “I’ll nip down to reception and ask for more.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll manage,” she huffed, pushing the wardrobe door to.
Pulling back his gaze, Hunter unzipped the suitcase. It contained Jonathan and Daniel’s clothing, and he lifted out a couple of folded T-shirts.
Beth stomped up to him and nudged him aside. She pulled the T-shirts out of his hand. “Why don’t you go and see how your mum and dad are getting on?” She picked out more of their sons’ clothes from the suitcase without looking up. “Take the boys with you while I sort these out.”
Closing the door, Hunter watched the boys bolt down the corridor to his parents’ room. Suddenly, frustration and sorrow overwhelmed him. This was one of the low
est points in his family’s life.
Jock sat on the edge of the bed staring at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, unhappy with what was staring back and trying to remember when everything had changed. He’d once had strong facial features and thick dark hair. Now his face was losing its definition, the flesh starting to drop, and his hair was almost white and thinning back to a widow’s peak. I look old.
He lifted his head, casting his gaze upon the scar over his right eye, and reached up to touch the jagged leathery mark. Picking up that injury had been the catalyst that had changed his life. It had been caused by a punch thrown after the bell during his sixth professional fight, ruining his career and his ambitions, and it had been the primary cause of the mess he now found himself in. Had it not been for that, he wouldn’t have been forced to do door work and get mixed up with villains. More so, he wouldn’t have met Billy Wallace, and therefore wouldn’t have been with him that fateful night when Billy had murdered a young mum and her five-year-old bairn, shooting them at point-blank range over a drug deal that hadn’t been of their causing. Jock had fled the scene as a wanted man, albeit an unwilling accomplice, but it hadn’t taken detectives long to track him down, and they had forced him to make a statement against Billy and his criminal accomplice, Rab Geddes, and go into the witness box.
The jury had found Billy and Rab guilty, and the judge had given them life. Following that, Jock had had to leave his birthplace, dragging his wife from their home in the middle of the night to make a new life in Yorkshire. For a long time, they had been strangers in a strange land. It had been especially hard for Fiona, because she had been closer to her family. And then Hunter had been born, and the changes in their lives took on new meaning and a fresh purpose. Jock had used his boxing skills to advantage, setting up his own gym and making a good reputation for himself. He produced some good young fighters, like he had once been.
But then two years ago, all that had changed. Billy Wallace had been released after 36 years behind bars with a score to settle, his focus to exact revenge on the man who had turned Queen’s evidence. Billy had eventually tracked Jock down, after torturing and murdering the detectives who had provided him with his new identity, but in a fight to survive he had beaten Billy, returning him to prison for the rest of his life. Or so he thought. Billy’s recent escape was now bringing fresh jeopardy, dragging Hunter into Billy’s firing line. It was a mess. A mess of his causing. Jock knew it and he felt totally useless.
The sudden opening of the bathroom door made Jock jump, and turning his head he saw Fiona appearing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her.
“The shower’s warm,” she said, dragging fingers through her limp, damp hair.
He pushed himself up from the bed, taking one last look in the mirror. Staring back was the face of someone feeling sorry for himself.
After showering, changing into fresh clothes and unpacking, Jock tapped on Hunter and Beth’s door and asked if they would like to go out for their evening meal, stating in jocular fashion it was a ‘peace proposal’. His offer melted the iciness in Beth’s look, easing some of Hunter’s tension, and as they drove towards the pub recommended by Beth, he felt his mood lifting.
The place they pulled into was an old stone pub in a small village twenty minutes from the hotel. Once upon a time the building had been the ‘family seat’ of the local landowner. It had become a pub in the 1950s. Hunter and Beth had been before with the boys, but it was a first for his parents. Hunter parked up round the back, out of sight of the main road, his parents following behind in their car. As he got out and locked up, he paused for a second to check if anyone had followed them. When no car appeared, he chased after his family, heading into the pub.
Approaching the bar, Hunter spotted Black Sheep on draught and ordered a pint. His dad chose the same. Beth and Fiona had a glass of white wine and the boys wanted Coke. Beth was already warning Daniel not to spill it before his glass had even been poured.
“I’ll get these,” Jock said, before Hunter could put his hands in his pockets. His dad handed over a £20 note and grabbed a handful of menus. Tucking them under his arm, he collected his change, picked up his beer and they all made their way to a table.
Hunter chose two tables near a window, dragged them together and picked a seat that gave him a view across the car park. Easing himself down, he took a long gulp of his beer, set down his glass, and opened one of the menus. It didn’t take him long to select what he wanted — the homemade pie was steak and ale, accompanied with real chips and mushy peas. He put down the menu with a smile, picked his beer back up and, one eye keeping lookout over the car park, settled back to wait for his meal.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After following Jock and his family to the hotel where they were now holed up, Billy Wallace returned to the street where Jock and his wife lived, drove slowly past the house, and seeing no police guard, pulled up a hundred yards beyond. Listening to the tick of the engine as it cooled, he scoured the street. There were more cars parked than earlier, but all of them appeared empty, and he guessed they belonged to the residents who had returned from work. The only people he saw were a couple with their dog fifty yards ahead, walking away from him.
Opening the car door, Billy eased himself out, once more casting his eyes around. The couple with the dog were just disappearing behind a hedge, turning the corner into the next road. Good. He shut the door with his hip, making as little noise as possible, and stayed there for a few seconds, listening. The only sound was a dog barking in the distance, and he thought about the couple who were now out of view. Zipping up, and pulling up the hood of his top, he went to the boot, popped it, reached inside and lifted out a plastic canister of petrol and a couple of rags. In another half an hour, Jock’s house would be up in smoke. And this was just the start of what he had planned for him.
Slipping the canister and rags into a carrier bag, he locked the car and set off towards the semi, keeping his head down. As he approached the driveway, he dropped his already slow pace and viewed the house. The first thing he looked for was an alarm. There was none. The blinds to the lounge were half-shut, and upstairs the bedroom curtains were closed, he guessed to make it look like someone was in, though he knew different. He scanned around him again. The street was still quiet. Dipping his head to obscure his face, he strolled down the drive to the side of the house and made his way around to the rear. Stopping by the back door, he gazed around the garden and listened. He was pleased to see that chest-high fencing ran around the entire garden and that several mature trees prevented prying eyes. He couldn’t have wished for better.
Setting down the plastic bag, Billy picked up an edging stone from the flower border, took out the largest of the rags from the bag, and placing it over the bottom corner of the kitchen window, he threw the stone. The first blow cracked the double glazing with only the slightest of noise. The second smashed both panels, and after making a quick check that the sound had not brought out the neighbours, Billy dropped the stone and began picking out the largest shards of the broken glass. A minute later, happy with the size of the hole, he lifted the plastic canister out of the bag, pulled up the funnel and began pouring petrol into the house. Jock was going to regret he’d ever spoken out against him.
PC Richard Flynn sat in his patrol car jotting down a few notes, cursing under his breath. For the last half-hour, he had been subjected to the moans of a couple who were complaining that their neighbour was spraying water over their drive every time he cleaned his car. Richard had initially wanted to ask them if they were being serious, but such was the graveness of their look and the anger in their voices he could tell they were. It hadn’t helped when he had told them there was nothing he could do other than have a word with their neighbour. They had almost escorted him out of their house, hissing after him, “We don’t know why we bother paying our taxes if that’s the service we get,” before slamming the door.
When Richard had gone around to have a word with the
ir neighbour, the man had merely laughed, believing it was a joke himself. Then, when he’d seen Richard’s serious look, he had launched into his own tirade, calling his neighbours ‘knobheads’ and ‘troublemakers’, telling him that the couple had already reported him to the council for allowing clippings to go into their garden after he had cut his hedge, and for having a noisy washing machine. Finishing his rant, he told Richard he wanted to make a complaint of harassment against them. When Richard explained it wasn’t harassment, the man had also rebuked him and slammed the door. Richard had walked back to the car, shaking his head in frustration, knowing full well that in a week or two he would be back at these addresses, doing his level best to mediate, despite knowing he was wasting his breath and valuable time. Ending his notes, he set aside his pen and gazed at his watch. Another two hours and his shift would be over. He couldn’t wait. It had been one of those days. When he got home, he was going to have a shower and a couple of beers, and unwind on the sofa, cuddled up with his wife, watching some catch-up TV.
Starting the engine, he was about to engage gear when his radio activated; a report had just come in that a hooded man had been seen going down the drive of a house a few streets away and the neighbours calling it in had just heard the sound of breaking glass at the rear. Richard took the call, slammed into first and screeched away from the kerb. It took him a little over a minute to get to the address, and he jumped out of the car, running his eyes over the front of the semi. The upstairs curtains were closed, there was no light on downstairs, despite dusk approaching, and there was no car on the drive. He bolted down the path, slipping out his baton and racking it out to its full length.
As he turned the corner, Richard caught sight of the burglar. He was wearing a black top with the hood up and looked to be a big man — well over six feet in height and broad across the shoulders. It looked to Richard as if he was holding a petrol container, and he could see he was tipping its contents in through the broken kitchen window. The burglar turned quickly, and Richard got his first look at his face. The villain wasn’t young by any means; he looked to be in his sixties, was unshaven and had an ugly-looking scar that snaked across his nose onto his right cheek. Richard’s initial thought was that despite this man being a senior citizen, he looked a hard bastard, and he instantly activated his status-zero button on his radio, requesting immediate backup.
Hunted: A psychotic killer is out for revenge... (THE DS HUNTER KERR INVESTIGATIONS Book 6) Page 3
