Hunted: A psychotic killer is out for revenge... (THE DS HUNTER KERR INVESTIGATIONS Book 6)

by Michael Fowler

  “You know him, then?” asked Beth.

  “We’ve got to know your mum and dad very well, in the short time they’ve been on the island. Your dad’s now our leading fire-officer for his sins.” Pausing, Budgie added, “If we find out someone’s got a particular skill, we abuse them.” He gave another short laugh. “We might even call on you, Beth. Your dad’s already told us you’re a nurse. I’ll introduce you to the island doctor if you want?”

  Beth smiled. “No thank you. I’m here for a break.”

  “Only kidding. Anyway, do you want to jump on board? You could walk up to the village, but you’ll find this is the easy way. It’s quite a steep hill, and you’ve got a fair bit of luggage.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The pair of tractors and their laden carriages trundled up the uneven, potholed Harbour Hill, coming to a stop by a pair of white-washed stone buildings. Between them was a courtyard containing benches. A sign on one of the end walls pointed out that it was the Bel Air Inn.

  Here the tractors came to a halt and everyone started to disembark.

  Budgie helped Fiona off, and ducking his head toward the buildings said, “That’s our main pub on the island. Most of the tourists end up here before they catch the last ferry back to Guernsey. This is where I find that I sometimes have my work cut out, especially in summer.” He dragged off one of the cases. “We have another pub, The Mermaid, which the locals mainly use. That’s up in the village. If you’re up for it, we can have a beer once you’re settled in.”

  Hunter nodded but didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure about anything yet, and although it sounded a good offer, he didn’t want to commit himself until they were in their cottage and had liaised with Beth’s parents; he knew how desperate his wife was to meet up with them.

  Budgie added, “I’m afraid you’ll find our nightlife a bit dull. The pubs are the best venue once it drops dark.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Hunter replied.

  Budgie took Fiona’s case and began walking. There was still a gentle rise before they reached the top of the hill. “Your cottage is only a couple of hundred yards from here,” he said.

  Hunter and his family set off after him. After a few yards, as the road levelled, Hunter spotted some horses and carriages, with a cluster of tourists gathered around them.

  “That’s our other public transport here, but it tends to get used exclusively by visitors for sightseeing. Most of the islanders use a push-bike to get around.”

  Passing the group, they came to a crossroads. In front of them was a coffee and giftshop, and leading away was a line of single-storey white buildings in a tree-lined avenue.

  Budgie paused momentarily until they caught up. “This is the village,” he said, dipping his head. “There’s a food store halfway along, and at the end is the Post Office and the Tourist Information Centre. Only half a dozen shops, but they’ll cater for all your needs.” He set off again, taking a left turn. “You’re just down here.”

  The road they travelled dipped downhill and was little more than dry clay embedded with granite rock. Hunter noticed a signpost pointing them towards Little Sark, and having googled the island, he had already identified it as a place to visit. Within a hundred yards, Hunter became aware of how quiet the place was. Except for the distant clop of horse’s hooves chipping the road, there was nothing.

  After a hundred yards, a large white building appeared.

  Leading the way, Budgie called behind him, “This is the farm your cottage belongs to. See, I told you it wasn’t far.”

  Passing a large row of hedges, the road took a sharp left downhill, and to the right a gateway appeared, a huge hydrangea bush partly hiding a low wooden gate.

  “Well, this is you,” announced Budgie, deviating onto the grass path up to the gate. “I’m going to leave you here. The cottage should be all ready for you. The farm we’ve just passed is owned by Mr and Mrs Mauger. The family have owned this place for generations. If you need anything, just ask them. And as you can see, you’re in a pretty private location.” He pointed up ahead, to where a narrow footpath disappeared into trees. “That track takes you Dixcart Bay, and the road to the left takes you to Derrible Bay and Sark Henge. I’m sure you’ll be exploring them over the next day or so. This place is pretty well set back, so you shouldn’t see anyone or have any visitors.” He handed the case back to Fiona. “Dixcart Bay is worth visiting. It has a nice beach and it’s easier to get down to than Derrible. The walk there is a good twenty minutes through woodland, but it’s mostly downhill. Before you get to the bay, there’s a track that takes you up onto the headland. If you take that, there’s a couple of hotels where you can get really nice food.”

  Hunter looked to Beth. “That sounds perfect.”

  “If you do see anyone around here, it will more than likely be a walker going to Sark Henge. There might be a few passing with the festival being on, but you’ll not see them unless you’re by the gate, or on the road yourselves.” Shaking Hunter’s hand, he added, “You’ve got my mobile number. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and check you’ve settled in, and if, in the meantime, you need me before then, you know where I am.”

  Hunter thanked him and watched him march away in the direction of the village. Then, picking up his case, he opened the small wooden gate into the garden. The cottage was bathed in sunlight and looked exactly like a cottage should — charming. It was made of local grey and pink granite, with a low-slung slate roof, in which were set three rooflight windows. To the right was an outbuilding, and on a flagstone area in front of that sat a large wooden table and six chairs. Hunter could already see himself sitting here this evening with Beth, sharing a bottle of wine. As he ran his eyes over the setting, one word sprang to mind: idyllic.

  The front door wasn’t locked, and Hunter walked into an oak-beamed kitchen and dining area. There was a pine table with six chairs and a wooden dresser against one wall. At the far end of the dining area, a pair of doors led into a large conservatory. In it Hunter could see two small sofas and a low, round table. He walked into the middle of the kitchen, set down his case and let out a contented sigh. This place was even better than he’d expected.

  “I’ll stick the kettle on,” piped up Jock, brushing past him. “I can see me making myself at home very quickly here.”

  Inside his head, Hunter echoed his dad’s words. He looked around to see where Beth was; she was just disappearing through a doorway that he saw led to a stairway. He could hear the sound of Jonathan and Daniel bounding up ahead of her, shouting excitedly, seeking out where they were going to sleep.

  Hunter’s eyes settled on Fiona. A concerned look was etched across her face. “Are you okay?” he mouthed.

  She nodded slowly. “I am now. I just hope they can catch Billy Wallace, so we can put this nasty business behind us once and for all and get our lives back again.” Her soft Scottish voice sounded choked.

  “They will do,” returned his dad, searching the wall cupboards for cups. “Let’s try and make the most of this, Fiona.”

  Hunter was about to reassure his mum when his dad suddenly called, “Hey, look what we’ve been left.”

  Hunter and Fiona turned to look at Jock. He was holding aloft a wicker basket. He pulled out of it a bottle of white wine.

  Hunter could make out bread and biscuits poking out from the top of the basket and what looked like a large bag of crisps.

  “Isn’t that a lovely gesture?”

  Hunter immediately agreed. This enforced break was getting better by the minute.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In her new office, Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate set down her bag on her desk, slipped off her jacket and flopped into her chair. Booting up the computer, she picked up the phone, and from memory, dialled the number of a former colleague, Detective Sergeant John Reed. As it started to ring, she spotted a note in her top tray. Recognising Grace’s handwriting, Dawn picked it up, trapped the phone between her ear and shoulder and speed-read th
e message. Grace’s memo told her that they had a forensic hit from the print lifted from the petrol container found at the rear of Jock Kerr’s house — it was a match to Billy Wallace. The news immediately lifted Dawn’s spirits and in a jubilant mood, while listening to the phone’s ringtone, she slipped the note into her journal. She was just composing her thoughts, preparing to leave John a voicemail, when he answered.

  “DS Reed.”

  Hearing his deep Scottish voice again instantly conjured up an image of him. Dawn wondered if John’s dark collar-length hair was still as unruly and if he’d bothered to shave today. She recalled how she used to rib him about his appearance. He told her it was his designer look, and she’d tell him he just looked scruffy. It was their standing joke. She had a true fondness for John: he had been her Detective Sergeant when she had joined Stirling CID, and he’d taught her everything about detective work. That had been 14 years ago. Since then, she had risen through the ranks, and although she had been promoted to other stations within the Force area, she had returned twice to Stirling CID — once as his DI and a few years ago as his DCI — before making the heart-wrenching decision to move to her current post, after splitting from her husband, Jack. That had been twelve months ago, and since then they had hardly been out of contact; John provided her with a much-needed fix to prevent her being homesick. Though that wasn’t the reason she was ringing him now. There were more pressing things on her mind, and John was her point of liaison.

  “Hello, John.”

  “Oh, hi Dawn. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope?”

  He let out a short laugh. “Would I ever think anything bad about my favourite Detective Superintendent?”

  “You’re such a smoothie, John Reed.”

  He gave out another short burst of laughter. “How’s it going down there?”

  “I was about to ask you that, but I’ve just picked out a note from my tray, and we appear to have a breakthrough.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I didn’t mention it to you yesterday when I rang, but a petrol container used in the attack on the PC was left behind, and SOCO lifted a couple of prints from it. I’ve just been told they’ve been identified as Billy’s.”

  “Well, that’s half the battle, Dawn, but do you have a firm identification that it’s Billy, then? How’s that PC of yours? Has he been able to confirm it’s him?”

  “He’s still in intensive care. He’s got twenty percent burns to his upper body. They’re keeping him sedated, and then they’re going to transfer him to a burns unit. It’s going to be a few days, if not longer, before we can get anything from him.”

  “What about the neighbours who reported the prowler? Didn’t you say that all that they were able to give you was the description of someone tall, wearing a dark hoodie?”

  “We’ve got two descriptions. One from Jock’s neighbours, and one from a couple walking their dog, who saw a man of a similar description sitting in a silver car about a hundred yards from Jock’s house.”

  “So, no one has given you a good enough description that you can say it’s definitely Billy? I don’t want to dampen your spirits, Dawn, but you know what Billy Wallace is like. A clever lawyer would say prints on a petrol container only show he’s handled it. It doesn’t exactly put him at the scene.”

  John’s comments momentarily floored her. She suddenly realised that in her excitement to put this firmly and squarely at the door of Billy Wallace, she wasn’t thinking rationally. She said, “You don’t want to come down here and work for me, do you?”

  “What, and miss this fine Scottish weather? Nae chance. Besides, I’d miss my square sausage in the morning.”

  It was Dawn’s turn to release a laugh. Then, on a serious note she said, “Do you know, John, you caught me not thinking straight there. I think it’s because this is so personal.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then John answered, “It’s not always easy handling a case when it’s one of your own. When it’s a stranger, you can at least separate it from your thoughts, no matter how tragic the circumstances. When it’s a cop, even though you don’t necessarily know them personally, or their family, you feel like a victim. I was in that same position eighteen months ago when Billy murdered those three retired detectives up here. All I wanted was his guts.”

  Dawn took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Before the pair of us get all maudlin, have you managed to find out anything for me up there?”

  “Nothing concrete, I’m afraid. We believe we’ve found the Range Rover that was used in the escape. It’s been fired. We found it burned out on an industrial estate ten minutes’ drive from the city centre. The Fire Brigade brought it to our attention. The number plates had been removed, and from the chassis number we’ve discovered it was stolen three days ago in a burglary. A couple of the premises on the estate have CCTV, but only for protection purposes, so they don’t look out over the area where the Range Rover was dumped. And there’s none at the entrance to the site, so we’re not holding out much hope of getting anything which might identify who dumped it. A couple of my team are out at the moment, canvassing the site for witnesses, and I’ve made a request for footage from ANPR cameras on all roads to and from the site, but its early days yet. I’ve also put in a couple of calls to my contacts, but not got anything positive back yet. The moment I get anything back as to who sprung Billy, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “Nae problem. Sorry I couldn’t give you some good news.”

  Dawn ended the call with a heavy sigh. She had hoped for an early arrest so that Hunter and family could get their life back, but it looked as though it wouldn’t be any time soon. She again looked at Grace’s note lying in the folds of her journal. At least this was a start. She pushed herself up. She had a briefing to conduct.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After ringing her parents to tell them they had arrived, Beth unpacked their things while Hunter went on a tour of the cottage. Downstairs he found a utility room with a second shower and toilet, which would be handy given their number. In the comfortably furnished lounge, with its whitewashed plaster walls and beamed ceiling, he found that a built-in cupboard next to the stone fire surround, housing a log burner, was stocked with games, puzzles, and DVDs, and next to the smaller of two leather sofas was a cupboard crammed with all manner of books. It certainly catered for their needs, he thought, as his eyes roamed around the room.

  Entering the conservatory, bathed in warm light, Hunter found another bookcase, and on top of that a 50s Crosley record player with a couple of dozen albums stacked beside it. He hadn’t played vinyl since he’d left his parents’ house, and he picked up half a dozen of the records. The first two were easy listening albums, but the third one sparked an instant vision from his teenage years: Human League, Dare. He read out the title inside his head. Now that brings back memories. The fourth ignited an even bigger spark and also brought about a huge tug on his heartstrings — Thompson Twins, Into the Gap. This had been Polly’s — his first love’s — favourite band. They had played this album relentlessly up in her room. He could see himself with her, lying side by side, talking about school stuff and what they were going to do with their futures. And then hers had ended when she was sixteen, and his had changed dramatically.

  He quickly shook the sad thought from his head and placed the records back on top of the pile. He’d go through them in a couple of days’ time, and maybe play a few for old times’ sake, he told himself, turning his eyes to the garden. It had the picture-postcard cottage look with borders full of blooms and a good size lawn that had been recently cut. A chest-high hedge surrounded it, and beyond that was a thick bank of trees, which he guessed was the beginning of the woods leading to the bay Budgie had mentioned. Surprisingly, in spite of the trees, the garden was blanketed in bright sunlight and he unlocked the conservatory doors and stepped out. The first thing that struck him again was the quietness. All he
could hear was birdsong. He took in a deep breath, as if sampling air for the first time, and held it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly. It was just as Detective John Batiste had said — Hunter was already falling in love with the place. He couldn’t wait to explore.

  Back in the house, he suddenly caught the sound of laughter and yells from Jonathan and Daniel coming from upstairs. It sounded as if Jock was play-fighting with them. He could hear Fiona telling him not to be so rough, and for a split-second Hunter’s thoughts were transported back to his childhood: a time of happiness, security and love. His dad had played with him similarly so many times. He was still finding it difficult relating that version of Jock to what he now knew about him. In a way, it felt like Jock had betrayed him for years, even though he now knew the reason why he had never been told.

  Suddenly, Hunter’s mobile rang, making him jump. Pulling it from his jeans pocket, he saw it was Dawn Leggate. He answered, “Afternoon, boss.”

  “Afternoon, Hunter, I’m just checking in with you. I’m presuming you’re in your cottage on Sark.”

  “Got here about an hour ago. It’s gorgeous and the weather’s beautiful.”

  “Don’t rub it in; its throwing it down here.”

  Hunter thought her voice didn’t have the normal upbeat sound to it. He said, “You sound tired, boss.”

  “Tired is an understatement. I’m knackered. I seem to be going from one crisis to another. I’ve got my trusted colleagues up in Scotland doing their best to track down an ugly-looking twat who gets his kicks from killing people, I’m overseeing the move to our new HQ, and I’m trying to look after one of my favourite detectives and his family several hundred miles away. Being a detective superintendent is not as nice a job as you think it is. Remember that when you go for promotion.”