Making his way to the sink, Hunter set down his mobile and stared into the mirror. He didn’t look good at all — the blue of his eyes looked washed out and a sweaty sheen masked his face. Taking a deep breath, he held it for several seconds and let it out slowly. The Gordian knot that had formed in his stomach a minute ago had now loosened. He ran the cold tap, scooped up a handful of water and splashed his face. He did it again, rubbing his cheeks. After drying himself with a paper towel, he straightened up to his full height, swelled his chest and took another look in the mirror. Although he didn’t feel it inside, outwardly, the colour had returned to his face, making him look more like himself. Pocketing his phone, he returned to the lounge.
Ten minutes later, two members of Airport Security arrived. One of them took Hunter to one side while the other instructed his family to gather their things together as they were about to be taken to the Boarding Gate. The man taking Hunter to one side was a supervisor. In a low voice he let him know that he had not long spoken with his Detective Superintendent, and that he had just checked passport control, and the day’s passenger list, and no one of the name of Billy Wallace had either passed through or was listed on any of today’s flights. He also reassured him that his name was on the ‘All Ports Warning’ system so that if he entered any airport within the UK, he would be instantly detained. Although the supervisor’s words should have come as some comfort to Hunter, he was still tense as he left the VIP lounge to board the plane.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Their plane was a twin-turboprop 78-seater belonging to Guernsey’s own airline. Hunter had never been on a propeller aircraft before, and as he climbed up the stairs at the rear of the small plane, he felt a knot of apprehension grip him. This tightened further when the seat he had been allocated gave him a direct view of the port propeller. He couldn’t help but think how seemingly small it was given the size of the plane, and as it taxied onto the runway, he gripped the arms of his seat. As the plane lifted off and began its climb, he quickly realised he needn’t have been so worried. Though the engines were noisy to begin with, as the plane evened out, and the throttle of the engines lessened, he was surprised at how smooth the flight became and loosened his grip from the armrests. Even more surprising was the length of the journey. It seemed that no sooner had they taken off than the pilot was announcing they were beginning their descent.
In a way, Hunter was glad the flight had been a short one. He had tried to relax, opening his paper with the intention of reading, but his concentration had been elsewhere, and after skimming through half a dozen pages, unable to take anything in, he had given up. As usual, Beth had sensed he was out of kilter with himself, enquiring, midway through the flight, if he was okay. Hunter had responded by squeezing her hand, giving a false smile and nodding his head. Seeing the stare she returned, he knew he hadn’t convinced her, and he widened his fake smile and added the word “Honest.” As she pulled back her eyes, he knew he still hadn’t swayed her thoughts: Beth could read him like a book.
Returning his gaze to the window, Hunter got his first view of the smaller of the Channel Islands as they dropped though the clouds, and was trying to identify which of them was Sark, when he felt the lowering of the landing-gear jolt the plane. Ten minutes later, the plane hit the tarmac with a thud and Hunter found himself being thrown forward, along with the other passengers, as it braked harshly for a good twenty seconds before easing. Thirty seconds later, the aircraft turned sharply off the runway and Hunter caught sight of Guernsey’s single-storey airport terminal.
Once off the plane, Hunter realised there was no more VIP treatment; he and his family joined the steady queue into the baggage collection area and waited for their cases. It was a good twenty minutes before he and his dad had dragged off all their cases from the belt, and, checking everyone was okay with their bags, Hunter led the way to the Arrivals Hall. Stepping through the automated doors into the bright and airy concourse, Hunter was faced by only a small gathering of people, and he let his eyes roam quickly among them — he had been told that a detective from the Guernsey Force would be waiting for them — and it didn’t take him long to spot their bodyguard: the thickset man in a light grey suit and open-necked white shirt was holding up a piece of A4 paper with Hunter’s name upon it.
Signalling him with a wave, Hunter stepped forward, pulling behind him the family’s biggest case.
The forty-something man, with light brown, thinning hair and a decent tan, introduced himself as, “DC John Batiste.”
Hunter shook his hand.
“I’m here to take you all to your ferry,” he said softly and turned for the exit.
Their transport was a black seven-seater Mercedes. Detective Batiste helped load their luggage, ensured Jonathan and Daniel were strapped in tightly, started the engine and checked everyone was good to go before pulling away from the car park. Hunter sat up front and saw that the Detective was heading for the capital, St. Peter Port. It was a slow journey, the main roads winding and narrow and heavily congested. The officer told him that the speed limit on the island was limited to 35 mph, and it was strictly enforced. Hunter wasn’t surprised in the least to learn this, given how constricted the roads were.
As the Detective drove, Hunter questioned him about police resources on the island and the nature of his job. From the conversation, he grasped that crime on the island was relatively low, with criminal damage and assault being the most common. It didn’t sound too exciting in comparison with his own job, though he didn’t say that. What Hunter did gather from their chat was that Detective Batiste had only been given the briefest of details about their plight; the only thing he had been told was that they were being moved because of threats to their life from an escaped convict. Hunter knew from experience that the full facts would be on a need-to-know basis, and this detective wasn’t in the know, so when Hunter didn’t offer up any additional information the detective quizzed no further.
As they talked, Hunter was keeping an eye on the surroundings, and he found himself captivated by the sheer quaintness of the island; it reminded him a little of Cornwall without the countryside. He especially couldn’t help noticing how one location melded into the next; there seemed to be no separation between towns or villages, just an endless ribbon of whitewashed cottages and houses, and so when he saw the sign that told them they were entering St. Peter Port, it took him completely by surprise. He checked his watch: it had taken them a little over 10 minutes — it was the quickest airport transfer he had ever experienced.
Still in nose-to-tail traffic, they descended a steep hill that skirted the Capital’s town centre, signposting them to the harbour. As they slowed for the junction at the bottom of the hill, the road opened out to give them a spectacular view towards the sea, the water shimmering under strong sunlight. Before them were several marinas, their moorings clogged with all manner of yachts and boats, many of them expensive-looking. The harbour was far bigger than Hunter expected. It stretched, both left and right, as far as he could see, and directly in front was a huge car park with surrounding grey walls, and a walkway and road that led to refurbished warehouses and a restaurant. To his right, at the far end of the harbour, his eyes fell upon what appeared to be a large fortress.
As if reading Hunter’s thoughts, John Batiste announced, “That’s Castle Cornet.” He slowed the vehicle, signalling left and pulling into the nearest harbour road. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Hundreds of years ago it guarded this port, but these days it houses museums and our theatre. In the summer we have quite a few concerts there. If you get chance, it’s worth visiting.” He drove to a hatched area designated for taxis and coaches and stopped. “Right, this is where I leave you.” Pointing out through the windscreen to a metal gantry, below which was berthed a large blue and white boat, he continued, “That’s your ferry.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “It leaves in ten minutes. Just take your bags down to the boat; they’ll load them on for you and take them off when you reach Sark. The crossi
ng takes about fifty minutes. Once I see you on, I’m going to radio-in, and by the time you get there the island Constable will be waiting for you. He’ll take you to where you’re staying.”
Hunter cracked open his door, but before getting out he reached over and shook the detective’s hand. “Thank you so much for looking after us.”
“My pleasure. And good luck to you. You should be able to relax now.” Batiste opened the driver’s door. “You’ll love Sark,” he said, climbing out. “In fact, I guarantee you’ll fall in love with the place. Everyone does.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hunter made sure their luggage was loaded before getting on the passenger ferry, and then made his way through the cabin seating area to the back of the boat, where he joined his parents. Beth and the boys had already secured a seat and were kneeling up on them, looking out across the harbour.
Hunter took note of the half a dozen people who had joined them outside, and then gazing back through the doorway into the seating area, he cast his eye upon the passengers who had taken up their seats. From a quick headcount, he registered about thirty people on board. Many of them looked like tourists — their outer clothing of fleeces or waterproof jackets, backpacks and cameras gave them away. Half a dozen or so, who were dressed more casually, carried handfuls of laden grocery bags, and Hunter guessed these were the island’s locals who had made the journey to stock up for a week or so. He noticed that those locals were targeting the passengers with more direct looks and casting smiles. Hunter had already read that many of the islanders on Sark held three or more jobs, mostly tourist related, and he guessed that those targeted smiles were planned with a view to attracting their custom once they were on the island. One lady, who looked to be in her early sixties, with short, rather stylish white hair, aimed a smile in his direction. The smile appeared genuine, and Hunter rebuked himself for his cynicism. He returned the gesture and then took a seat beside Beth and the boys.
The water in the harbour sparkled, and the sky was full of fluffy white clouds, a splash of cerulean dotted here and there where there were gaps. Though a gentle breeze came off the sea, brushing Hunter’s face, it was surprisingly warm, especially given it was the beginning of autumn. Suddenly, he felt content. The stress of the last few days had already lifted, and he switched his thoughts to the next couple of weeks. He couldn’t wait to see the cottage Beth’s parents had chosen for them and to explore the island. He only wished he had brought along his easel and paints.
Beth slipped her mobile out from her bag, announcing she was going to phone her parents to tell them what time the ferry was getting in.
Her voice brought back his attention. Hunter laid a hand on her wrist. “Can you just hold off until I speak with the cop who’s meeting us and check what’s happening?” He saw by the look on her face she was disappointed. “It’ll only be a couple more hours, and then you’ll have as much time with them as you want.”
Tight-lipped, Beth gave him a curt nod and with a sigh returned her phone to her bag. Wrapping an arm around her, he gave her a reassuring hug.
From the back deck of the passenger ferry, Hunter watched Guernsey getting ever more distant. The lighthouse at the end of the harbour by Castle Cornet was soon just a speck of white, and he dropped his eyes upon the water, which although a beautiful ultramarine, was surprisingly choppy. That thought brought his gaze back to Beth beside him, and for the next few minutes he found himself watching her as much as the sea; she suffered from travel sickness, and boats were her worst nightmare. Every time he looked her way, she wore a weak smile, but he knew from her pallor that she wasn’t enjoying this journey one bit.
Hunter had his arms across the shoulders of the boys, who were gazing out to sea. They had already spotted Sark poking above the horizon and were chattering excitedly. They suddenly gave a cry, and Hunter swung his gaze from Beth out into the Channel, where Jonathan and Daniel were pointing. Behind him passengers were making excited calls, and when his eyes landed on darkened shapes leaping out of the water, he realised why: a pod of five dolphins were springing above the waves, almost in unison, disappearing for a second and then re-appearing. Everyone’s eyes were glued seaward, even Beth’s, and the showmanship of the dolphins was spectacular. The acrobatic display lasted a good ten minutes until they steered away and disappeared beneath the swell. It was only when Hunter glanced right that he realised why — the rocky granite cliff face of Sark was coming into view, and its height took him by surprise. He had to crane his neck skywards to get a glimpse of the top.
The ferry throttled down, reducing its speed to a chug, and began edging in towards Maseline Harbour. The tiny harbour was nestled against the rock-face, its walls forming a right angle, the longest jetty pointing, finger-like, out to sea. In the shadow of the ominous cliffs, the water took on a shade of dark green-blue and was a lot calmer. The berthing of the ferry was relatively smooth, its gentle clunk against the harbour wall hardly felt. Within minutes, the crew had secured the mooring and began helping people off.
Hunter noticed that one of the first people off was the elderly lady he’d exchanged a smile with. He watched her switching shopping bags between hands, getting her balance before she set off. He noted how sprightly she was for her age, and he watched her skip up the steps onto the jetty and then slip into a tunnel that was cut into the rock. Its entranceway was painted white and had a sign above it, which read ‘Welcome to Sark.’ Everyone was following her, and he realised it was the only way out of the harbour.
Hunter waited for the crowd to thin, and then he climbed off and helped out his mum, and then Beth and both lads. His dad came out last, not requiring help. A member of the ferry crew hauled out their cases, and once they were all assembled and had gathered up their things, he traipsed after the rest of the passengers into the tunnel. Coming out of the other side, the sunlight momentarily blinded him. As the flashes behind his eyes cleared, Hunter saw that they were at the bottom of a winding track that rose steeply between a valley of trees and rocks. A signpost next to a wall read ‘To the Village’. To his left, parked up, were a couple of tractors, towing open carriages with seating. One of them was already full of passengers, and people were making their way to the next one. Knowing there were no cars on the island, Hunter gathered that this was the public transport. Waiting at the end of the carriages was a squat man with a shock of iron grey hair and the facial complexion of someone who regularly worked outdoors. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a logo on the chest, cargo shorts and walking boots. He stepped towards Hunter, holding out his hand.
“DS Kerr?” he enquired.
Hunter broke into a smile. “Do I stand out that much?”
The man returned his own smile. “No, you don’t actually. I was told to expect a detective with his family, and you’re the only family group who’s got off the ferry.”
Pointing a finger at his clothing, Hunter said, “You certainly do a good job blending in with the locals. I’m guessing you’re the island cop, come to meet us?”
The man, who looked to be in his fifties, gave a hearty laugh. “These are my normal clothes. I only put on my uniform when its necessary to show a presence.” He stabbed a finger at the logo on his chest. “My day-job is running an adventure company on the island — corporate events, kayaking and the like. My role as the island Constable is additional.”
“Certainly discreet, anyway.”
He gave another burst of laughter. “I’ll tell you now, there’s no discreet here. There’s roughly six-hundred people living on this island, and they all know each other’s business.” Leaning in, lowering his voice, he added, “I’ve already mentioned your coming. It was easier to do that than to try and be discreet and failing. I used to work in the UK, so they think you’re an old colleague. Don’t be surprised when they start quizzing you, but as far as they’re concerned you and your family are here on holiday. Okay?”
Hunter nodded.
“By the way, I’m Paul Burgess, but everyone he
re calls me Budgie.”
“Hunter.”
Returning to talking on a low note, the Constable said, “I’ve been sent an email with the briefest of details about why you’re here, but it is the briefest of details, so unless you want to fill me in later, I won’t be asking questions. I’ve also been emailed a picture of this Billy Wallace character I should be looking out for. I will be showing it to a few people here who I can trust. We have a great ‘ears and eyes’ set-up on this island. Nothing gets past no one, as you’ll no doubt find out. Any strangers normally stick out like sore thumbs.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I say normally, because starting this weekend, and for the next ten days, it’s our Festival of Light, and the island will be snided with folk, so I’m going to have to be really on my toes. But don’t worry, we also have a couple of dozen Specials on the island, so I’ll be briefing them and showing them the picture of Billy. You won’t need to worry.”
“Festival of Light?”
Budgie nodded. “It’s a bit like Shetland’s Up Helly Aa. There’s always been a small fire festival here, going back decades, but in the last five years it’s got bigger and bigger and more popular. We now get people from all over the world coming here for it. A lot of them come because we’re now officially a dark skies island, and so they come to view the stars, but it’s mainly about the Pagan celebration of autumn to winter, which starts with the walk of fire from the village up to Sark Henge, that’s our mini Stonehenge, and finishes with a huge bonfire up on the clifftop of Hogsback. All very commercial, but it’s a great experience. You and your family will love it.” He paused, adding, “People will start arriving this Saturday. All the accommodation will be full. You’re very lucky to get the cottage you’re staying at.” He looked to Beth. “It’s only because your dad was able to pull some strings.”
Hunted: A psychotic killer is out for revenge... (THE DS HUNTER KERR INVESTIGATIONS Book 6) Page 5
