“And the weapon?”
“We’ve found a gun under the bed, where the couple are, but we don’t think it’s the gun that killed them. It was between the bed and bedside cabinet. Its position would suggest it was just in reach if you needed it. It’s my guess that it was there for protection, but the guy never had time to get to it. Looks as though they were popped while they were both asleep.”
John lifted up his mask. “Okay, Craig, let’s take a look-see.”
At eight-fifteen that morning, Billy Wallace was awakened by his phone alarm. He lurched upright, nervously taking in his surroundings. It was the first time in days he had managed to sleep. It had been a deep sleep, and that was why, for a brief moment, he fell into a state of panic. He’d let his guard down.
He reached beneath the pillow in search of his gun. It was still there, and the panic subsided. Wrapping his fingers around the butt, he slid it out. “PSS silent pistol.” He was mouthing the words of Alec, who had shown him the two guns he and Frankie had used to spring him. “Used by Russian Special Forces. Smuggled them out of Afghan on my last tour,” Alec had added.
In the gloomy surroundings of his hotel room, Billy locked eyes on the handgun that felt comfortable in his hand, a smile breaking across his face. Loose ends tidied up, he thought to himself. And now there was just one more score to settle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“He’s slipped the net, I’m afraid, Dawn,” said John Reed, over the phone.
Dawn Leggate was at her desk, resting on one elbow, with the phone clamped to her ear. Her former Detective Sergeant had already told her about the three new victims and described the crime scene. She sucked in a deep breath. “And there I was hoping you were going to bring me some good news, John,” she interjected as she detected a break in his speech.
“So was I, believe me.”
“And you believe Billy’s responsible?”
There was an elongated pause before John replied. “Given what my snout told me, and given Billy’s previous, this has his trademark all over it. Forensics have recovered loads of dabs and DNA, but we won’t know anything for the best part of a week. My team are still going over the place and doing house-to-house. We have a sighting from one of the residents in the flats, who says he bumped into a guy hurrying down the stairs shortly after midnight, two days ago. The resident was just coming back from the pub. The description he gives certainly fits Billy. Even down to the scar across his face. And that fits roughly with the timing of the murders.”
“And you’ve no idea where he is?”
“Sorry, Dawn. The last sighting was two days ago. We’re checking around the site to see if there’s any CCTV that could help. The flats themselves don’t have any. But we don’t think Billy left on foot. We’ve found documents in the flat that lead us to believe that the ex-squaddie who’s down as renting the place owns a white Kia Sportage, but we’ve not found any car keys, and there’s no sign of it anywhere on the complex, so we believe Billy has taken it. We’ve put out a request for sightings, so if he’s driving it still, it’ll ping up on ANPR. That’s our best hope at the moment.”
“What’s the reg number?”
John gave her the details and added, “I believe, in the sequence of things, that he popped these three before he made his way down to you and did the cop.”
“Anything else?”
“The District Commander up here is going to do a press appeal this afternoon, saying we want to trace Billy in relation to the killings, and we’ll be showing a recent photo of him, so I’m giving you the head’s up now, so that you can have something in place if there are any sightings down your way.”
“Is it likely to go out on the main news?”
“It’s a pretty quiet day news-wise, so I think it will get an airing. There’s certainly enough interest up here.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure I text Hunter and make him aware. His parents and Beth must be at their wits’ end with all this, so if I let him know, he might be able to do something to stop them seeing the news and prevent them from worrying more than they have to.”
“Right, I’ll leave it with you, Dawn. If I get anything pressing in the meantime, I’ll give you a call.”
Hunter locked up the cottage, slipped the key into his jeans and zipped up his fleece — he had noticed a distinct drop in temperature this morning, and he and Beth were off to the north of the island for a walk around the headland, where he guessed it would be a few degrees colder. He glanced at his watch as he followed Beth down the path to the gate. It was just after 10 a.m. — they had a whole four hours to themselves. Jonathan and Daniel had gone off with Sandra and Ray, and Fiona and Jock had gone off to visit the La Seigneurie House and gardens, and on the way back they were going to get more provisions from the Village Store. They had all arranged to meet back at the cottage at two o’clock and have a late lunch.
Hunter and Beth set off with purpose, bypassing the village, taking another road they hadn’t tramped before that signposted them to the Eperquerie, the northern tip of the island. They passed mostly ploughed farmland, until they reached a point they recognised from yesterday’s trip with Phil, which was where the road ended and became a dirt track. It was here the landscape changed as well; they left behind relatively well-trimmed hedgerows to be faced by shoulder-high gorse, flanking a narrow path.
A hundred yards along, the track opened up to heathland, giving them a panoramic view of headland and sea that was stunningly dramatic. Hunter dragged out the map from the cottage to gather his bearings. Darting his gaze between landscape and map, he made out the island of Brecqhou to his left, a place he had already earmarked to get a better look at, and he picked out a path with his eyes that he thought might lead them that way.
Within ten minutes of taking a left, he and Beth found themselves at a granite outcrop, and immediately realised they had found the Monk’s Rock with the Buddhist blessing carved upon it. With careful steps, they took the rocky path down to it and spent a few minutes eyeing up the carving, Hunter running his hand over the smooth artistry of the work, before heading back up the path, finding an offshoot that looked as if it took them in the direction of Brecqhou. They instantly noticed that the wind had picked up here, and although it wasn’t as cold as Hunter had anticipated, it lashed at their faces, forcing them to hitch up their collars and dip their chins.
Following the track, Hunter was surprised to find it returned them to the main road, taking them away from the headland, and after consulting his map again, he discovered another route through farmland and took it. The deviation was worth it. As he rounded a bend, and looked out to sea, he was faced with the most breath-taking sight of four monumental rocky stacks towering out of the sea against an escarpment of huge dark cliffs. The granite blocks were suffering an onslaught of vicious sea-troughs and crashing waves, the thunderous sound echoing around the bay, and Hunter was mesmerised. It was the most spectacular sight he had ever encountered in a coastline, and he pulled out his mobile to photograph it. It was as Ray had said; it would make the most perfect painting, and as he snapped several shots, in his mind’s eye, he could already see it on the wall of their lounge back home. He took at least twenty photographs before Beth nudged him.
“Come on, Constable, I’m ready for a drink.”
Hunter turned and smiled; he knew she was referring to the artist and not his job. He put away his phone and glanced at his watch. They had been walking for over an hour and a half. Taking one last look at the scene, he pulled Beth close, kissed the side of her face and set off back in the direction they had come. “Sorry, got carried away again.”
“You can treat me to a cider; that’ll make up for it.”
“Bel Air?” he returned.
“That sounds good to me.”
The road back was well signposted. It took them past the church and into the village. Half an hour later, they were entering the courtyard of the Bel Air. The weather had improved; the clouds had shifted and the su
n had broken through, and although it wasn’t as warm as the previous few days, it was still comfortable enough to sit outside.
One couple, a young man and young woman, were at a table by the door, and as Hunter eyed the man drinking a beer he was already hoping they still had Black Sheep on draught. They selected a table up the steps on the terrace, out of earshot of the young couple, and after checking that Beth still wanted a cider, Hunter nipped into the pub. There were only four people in the place: two men standing at the bar, and an elderly couple seated at one of the tables near the fire. It looked as if it had just been lit; small flames were licking around a couple of logs, but very little heat was coming from it.
Hunter made his way to the bar, the barman just appearing from the back, throwing a towel over his shoulder. As the steel-grey, short-haired man in his early fifties met his look, Hunter thought he recognised him, and judging by the reaction from the barman, the feeling was mutual. Hunter quickly searched his memory banks, but before anything came to him, the man pointed a finger and said, “You’re Barry Newstead’s mate.”
The cogs in Hunter’s brain went into overdrive, and then it came to him. 1991. This man had given them some information which had helped them detect a robbery and a murder. It had been his first murder case — he had just started his CID aideship. He stared hard at the barman, trying to bring back his name; there had been so many more jobs and informants since then.
“Your name will come to me,” said the man.
“Hunter. Sorry, I can’t remember your name, it’s such a long time ago.”
“Mick, Mick Woods.”
Suddenly, everything came back to Hunter. 1991. Just before Christmas. He hadn’t been in the job long. He was on attachment to CID and working with Barry. A nasty armed robbery, where the owner had been shot. Three young men had been involved; they’d then driven on to a disabled man’s house because they hadn’t got much loot, and they’d shot him dead and robbed him. Mick had given him and Barry the names of those involved.
“How’s Barry going on? It’s years since I’ve seen him. He must have retired by now; I’m fifty-seven.”
A lump emerged in Hunter’s throat. He swallowed hard. “He’s dead,” he replied, stumbling over his words.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Nice bloke … for a cop.” Mick let out a half-laugh.
The two young men standing at the bar whipped their heads sideways, just for a split-second, before returning to face the bar.
Hunter felt his face flush. Quickly changing the subject, he said, “It’s a small world. How come you’re here?”
“Long story short, since I finished at the pit, I’ve done loads of travelling. Been all over Europe, and one of my journeys was here, to the Channel Islands. I came here for a couple of days six months ago and saw this place up for lease. I’ve always fancied running my own pub, so I thought I’d give it a go. And I’ve not regretted one minute, so far. Are you here on holiday, or are you working? Are you still in CID?”
The two men were still facing the bar, but out of the corner of his eye Hunter could see the guys were earwigging the conversation. He smiled to himself. “Holiday. I’m here with the family.”
“Here for the festival?”
“Should be.”
“Seen much of the island?”
“Only been here a couple of days. This morning we’ve just been up to the north of the island and walked down to where the stacks are.”
“Great views, aren’t they? I’ve got to know the island like the back of my hand now. There are some great places to visit. Did you see the Window in the Rock while you were near the stacks? They’re called ‘Les Autelets’, ‘The Alters’, by the way.”
“Window in the Rock?”
“It’s the other side of the headland, opposite side of the stacks. Some entrepreneur, who used to live on the island, blew a hole in the rockface as a tourist attraction so you could look through to get another view of ‘The Alters’. It’s a great view, but you have go careful; there’s a sheer drop of a couple of hundred feet the other side of the Window. It’s marked on the map next to Port du Moulins. You need to pay it a visit.”
“Thanks, I will do.”
“Now, what can I get you?”
Hunter saw Black Sheep was still on draught, and he ordered a pint and a local cider for Beth. After thanking Mick, he took them outside and set them down on the bench. He told Beth about his meeting.
“Gosh, that’s weird. You come hundreds of miles to a small island like this and end up bumping into someone who’s from your own neck of the woods. Good job you’re not having an affair.” She laughed.
“I never thought of that. I should have said I was. That would have set tongues wagging.”
Hunter tucked into his pint. He had just taken the head off it, gazing around the courtyard, when his eyes settled upon a man with collar-length, straggly, brown, greying hair and a rough beard, who was sitting alone at one of the tables, looking in their direction. As Hunter caught his eye, the man pulled back his gaze and dropped his head, as if trying to hide the fact he had been watching. Hunter felt his heart leap and pick up several beats. He kept his eyes upon him for several seconds, watching the man take out his phone, swipe it and begin staring at the screen as if reading something, though Hunter felt the action was false.
“Something the matter?” Beth asked.
Hunter dragged back his eyes and met hers. “No, of course not,” he lied. “Just thinking about the barman.”
“What a coincidence, hey?” She smiled and sipped her cider.
For the next quarter of an hour, Beth talked about how much she had enjoyed their walk and time out from the boys for a change. Hunter half-listened, nodding while drinking his beer, breaking away his gaze a couple of times to catch a glimpse of the lone man. On one of those occasions, he had caught him looking their way again, but he quickly shied away, acting like a child who had been caught doing something he shouldn’t, which again unnerved Hunter. He freeze-framed his thin angular face with high cheek-bones, storing it to memory.
“It’s time we should be getting back.” Beth’s words brought back his attention. She had finished her drink and was holding up her watch, tapping its face. “We said we’d be back at two for lunch. It’s almost quarter-to.”
Hunter quickly nodded, glanced at his pint, and seeing that he only had the dregs left downed them in one gulp. Then, setting down his empty glass, he pushed himself up from the bench, shooting another look in the lone man’s direction. His straggly-haired head was down once again; he appeared to still be looking at his phone.
Beth got up and slipped her arm through Hunter’s. “I enjoyed that.”
“Me too,” Hunter returned, although he hadn’t exactly. The stranger’s shifty actions had unsettled him. As he stepped away, he so much wanted to spin around and see if the man was staring at them, but he didn’t want to panic Beth, and so, taking a deep gulp of air to steady his breathing, he picked up his pace and headed back to their cottage, all the time feeling as if a stare was boring into his back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hunter and Beth returned to the cottage to find the kitchen table laid out with an array of sandwiches and nibbles, and everyone was waiting. Making their apologies, they washed their hands and joined them. Lunch was a chatty affair, with Fiona and Jock telling everyone about their visit to the Seigneurie Gardens. Hunter tried to be part of the conversation but found himself zoning out, thinking about the man with the straggly hair and beard, deciding to keep a lookout for him from now on.
After lunch, his and Beth’s parents went into the conservatory and he helped Beth tidy up the table and wash the dishes. Then he went into the garden, where Jonathan and Daniel were kicking around a ball they had found in the outbuilding, and he joined in. The kick-around quickly worked him into a sweat, and it broke his thoughts away from the stranger. Twenty minutes later, Daniel had had enough and returned indoors, leaving him to pass the ball around with J
onathan. It didn’t last long, and soon they came together, catching their breath. Hunter noticed that the day was ending as it started, with the sky awash with thick clumps of grey cloud. Dropping the ball and kicking it down towards the trees, Hunter leaned in to Jonathan and fussed affectionately with his hair.
Jonathan quickly drew away his head. “Dad!”
Hunter gazed downwards at his son. Jonathan was staring at where the ball had ended up, his head bent to one side. For a moment, Hunter felt put out by his son’s reaction, but as he stared down it suddenly dawned on him that Jonathan had probably got to that time in his life where he didn’t want his dad fussing over him anymore. He’s no longer a child. This year, he seemed to have shot up — thin and lanky, like Hunter used to be — and his collar-length dark brown hair had thickened, reminding him of how his own once was.
Next year, Jonathan was starting comprehensive school, and unlike himself, Jonathan had no artistic talent whatsoever. Instead, he was sports-mad, especially football, and far better than Hunter had been at his age. He had already been approached by Rotherham Football Club Academy and was training with them. The downside was his lack of educational focus, and he and Beth had worried over it, especially Beth. They had no worries on that subject with Daniel. He was certainly the most studious — his head was constantly in a book, or he was writing his own adventure stories on the laptop.
“Is Granddad in trouble, Dad?” Jonathan looked up at Hunter, and for a moment father and son locked eyes.
“Why do you ask that?” Hunter responded, breaking from his thoughts.
“I heard you and Mum talking before we came here. You were telling Mum about someone escaping from prison who was after Granddad.”
Hunter felt his chest tighten. Taking a quick breath, he replied, “You must have got it mixed up, Jonathan. It wasn’t Granddad I was talking about, it was just about work. I was telling her about a job I’d heard about. I was talking about someone else’s granddad. Nobody you know.”
Hunted: A psychotic killer is out for revenge... (THE DS HUNTER KERR INVESTIGATIONS Book 6) Page 10
