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

by Michael Fowler

  “You wouldn’t fucking believe it, Dawn. Bloody missed him again.”

  She was surprised at how raised and agitated John’s voice sounded. He was normally so calm, even when under the most intense pressure. This could only mean one thing. “Billy?” she replied.

  “Aye, fucking Billy. You won’t believe how close we were. He has the fucking luck of the devil.”

  “Rewind, will you, John? I can obviously gather this call is about Billy Wallace.”

  “Sorry, Dawn, but that guy is as fucking slippery as a snake.”

  Pushing back her chair, Dawn lifted her eyes to the ceiling, switching her phone from one ear to the other. Down the line, in the background, she could hear raised voices. People were shouting to one another. “You’re still not making sense, John. Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

  Following a long pause, John answered, “Last night, our Ops Room got a call from the manageress of a low-budget hotel on the outskirts of Edinburgh, telling us that she’d seen the news about the man we were after for the murders and that she had someone fitting Billy’s description staying there. She said he’d booked in for three nights, but she’d only seen him for one of those and that was when he’d first booked in. She said he’d asked for his room not be cleaned so no one had been in it, and she didn’t know if he was in there or not. Late last night, I sent over two detectives to check things out, and sure enough they found the white Kia Sportage belonging to Alec Jefferies in the car park. The plates had been switched on it. So, I got my two guys to sit on the place, while I pulled together an armed team to bust it this morning. We did the raid an hour ago, and he wasn’t there. Anyway, I’ve just seen the hotel CCTV and it shows him disappearing out the back, two days ago. He made his way down to the basement and slipped out by the laundry room wearing one of the staff overalls. He’s been on the run for forty-eight hours, which ties in time-wise with what happened to the cop at Jock’s house.”

  “So, we’ve no idea if he’s still down here, or returned back up there, then?”

  “Not at the moment, Dawn. I’ve got as many on it as I can muster.”

  “Bloody hell, John, we could really do with nailing this bastard. And quick.”

  “You’re telling me. That’s not all…”

  “Hit me with it.”

  “He’s changed his appearance.”

  “How?” Dawn paused and added, “I mean, what’s he look like now?”

  “In his room we’ve found a discarded bottle of men’s hair-dye, and there was a load of hair in the sink. It looks as though he’s trimmed and dyed his hair brown and cut off his beard. We also found a receipt in the bin. As well as the hair-dye, he bought a jar of camouflage make-up from the chemist. You know, the type people use when they’ve got a bad birthmark. I’m guessing it’s to cover his scar.”

  “Do you have an image?”

  “The CCTV in the hotel is crap, to be honest. It’s black and white and probably the cheapest system you can get. I’ve got someone going through it, but I’m not hopeful that we can get anything good enough to circulate.”

  “That’s a bummer. Okay. Fingers crossed you’ll get him up there now he hasn’t got transport.”

  “We could certainly do with a change of luck.”

  “Well, thank you for updating me, John. Keep me posted, won’t you?”

  Dawn was about to end the call, when John said, “Another thing. We believe Billy’s armed. We’ve found a couple of bullets in his room. They match the type we found at Alec Jefferies’ flat. The bullets are an unusual type — they’re for a gun Russian Special Forces use for covert ops and assassination. It’s known as a PSS silent pistol. It’s one of the guns Alec smuggled back from Afghanistan.”

  “Fucking hell, John. Things were bad enough before. Billy Wallace was a headcase without a gun. Now he’s an armed nutter.”

  “Tell me about it. We’re pulling out all the stops up here.”

  Dawn took a deep breath, concern suddenly washing over her. “Okay, John, keep me up to date and let me know if I need to start getting worried about Hunter and his family.” She hung up before he could answer, and for a moment she stared at her phone, biting down on her lip. One step forward, two steps back. What was she going to tell Hunter when he phoned? The psycho who’s after your dad has now got a gun. No, I don’t think so. He’s on the other side of The Channel, and he’s got enough going on in his life without me adding to his burden. Setting aside her phone, she returned to her emails.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  By the time Hunter left the Bel Air Inn with Budgie, a full search of the island was underway. Budgie had sent the image of the stranger to all his contacts, asking if his whereabouts were known, as well as requesting he be contacted the moment anyone spotted the man. He had also made a series of phone calls to all the Island Specials, pairing them up and allocating them a portion of the island to search, telling Hunter that his team were familiar with all the derelict places on the island as well as the usual campsites. The Constable had also put in calls to the island’s fishermen asking them to carry out a sea patrol, especially requesting that they checked the caves once used by the island’s smugglers. Hunter was not only amazed at how quickly the island cop had pulled this together but the resources he had available. This really was a case of the island community all working together for the greater good. Hunter knew of nothing like this in the UK and let him know how impressed he was.

  Budgie thanked him, adding, “You won’t be saying this in half an hour’s time. We’ve got our own area to search, and I’m counting on your help.”

  “Looking forward to it. There’s nothing I’d like more than to catch up with the guy I saw at the pub and quiz him.”

  Budgie led Hunter away from the pub, back in the direction of where they were staying, branching off by the cottage gate along a track that was signposted ‘Hogsback’, telling him that this overlooked one of the island’s main beaches and was where Sark Henge was located.

  Tramping down a muddy incline, turning a corner that headed into a small copse of trees, they were suddenly faced by a change in weather. Hunter had noted earlier that thick clouds had descended and that it was distinctly cooler, but now, as they followed the track that led them through the bank of trees into a field, fine rain met them at an angle, peppering their faces, forcing them to pull up the hoods of their waterproofs. It was uncomfortable going.

  Five minutes later, they were approaching chest-high hedges of bramble that signalled the far edge of the field they were in, and as they negotiated an opening Hunter saw they were entering a wide expanse of land that overlooked the sea, though the view wasn’t that good. The fine rain had turned to sea-fret, blurring everything beyond a few hundred metres, so all he could see beyond the headland was a narrow section of steep craggy cliffs disappearing into misty grey waters.

  “This is Hogsback,” Budgie announced, shielding his face. “Usually the view from here is stunning. Not today, I’m afraid.” Pointing right, to where Hunter saw a huge pile of broken bracken, trees and bushes, he added, “This is where the Festival of Light ends next Friday. Everyone comes up here after the procession through the village to throw their torches onto the bonfire to light it.” Then pointing left he said, “And that’s Sark Henge.”

  Hunter followed the line of Budgie’s outstretched arm; a hundred yards ahead, he could just make out a series of upright stones perched on the shoulder of the cliff overlooking the sea.

  “Come on, I’ll show you them.” Looking around, he continued, “You can see that no one’s camping up here, so I’ll give you the tourist spiel and then we’ll head back to your cottage. There’s nothing here for us.”

  As Hunter tramped towards the Henge, he could feel his boots becoming sodden, and by the time they had reached the circle of stones, water had crept through the leather and his feet were starting to get damp. They halted at the edge of the circle and Hunter was surprised at just how small it was; the nin
e stones were roughly chest height, set around a circumference of no more than forty feet. He had expected it to be far larger and threw Budgie a questioning look.

  Budgie smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. Is this it? To be honest, it’s not that ancient. It’s made up of stone gateposts that are old, but the circle itself was built only recently to commemorate four hundred and fifty years since Queen Elizabeth I granted the Fief of Sark to the Seigneur.” He let out a chuckle. “Anyway, we’re proud of it and it makes for a good talking point.” He took another look around him, straightening his face. “Well, there’s certainly no sign of life up here, and the weather’s not fit for man nor beast. Come on, we’ll go back to yours and I’ll check in with the others and see if they’ve come across anything.” Dipping his chin into the collar of his waterproof, Budgie set off back towards the track.

  Dawn Leggate took the call from Hunter driving home from work, ending their conversation on the driveway of her home. Storing everything to memory, she turned off the engine and sat for a good minute, staring out through the windscreen at the garage door, thinking things through. Given what John Reed had told her this morning, and this recent information from Hunter, the Billy Wallace investigation had suddenly cranked up a gear. Her first priority when she got into work tomorrow was to speak with her counterpart on Guernsey and discuss tactics, and the other thing on her mind was to send up a liaison team to Scotland to join her former colleague, so she had a constant overview. She was eternally grateful there were no other pressing matters at work at the moment. Happy with the decisions she had come to, she picked up her bag off the front seat and climbed out of the car.

  Entering the house, she was greeted by the sound of Frank Sinatra singing ‘You make me feel so young’ and smiled to herself. Michael was playing swing music again. That could only mean one thing — he was cooking.

  “I’m home,” Dawn shouted along the hallway, closing the door behind her, planting her bag down on the hall table and unbuttoning her coat.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Michael called back. “Just rustling up some food.”

  Slipping off her low heels, she stretched out her toes and made a detour into the lounge, turning down the volume of the music system, before making her way into the kitchen. He always had it on loud, and Michael’s choice of music wasn’t hers. She smelt spaghetti bolognese the second she entered. She had only grabbed a yoghurt for lunch, and suddenly she was hungry. Michael had his back towards her, stirring away at the stove, and she looked him up and down, setting her eyes on the metal cage wrapped around his right leg that held his smashed femur in place.

  A lump emerged in her throat. Is this what survivor guilt felt like? For a moment, her thoughts spun away to the night that had happened. It was still as fresh in her mind as if it were yesterday. She had come home late from work to an empty home — Michael had gone out for a curry with his mates, leaving her a note saying he would make his own way home. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine, taken a long soak in the bath and turned in after the ten o’clock news. And then the loud rap on the front door had woken her, and thinking it was Michael who had drunk too much, she’d tramped downstairs, flinging open the door, ready to blast him with some choice words. She had been so surprised to find a traffic cop standing on the doorstep, nervously trying to break the news to her that Michael had been involved in a hit and run, was in a bad way in hospital and he had come to drive her there. She had arrived to find Michael in ITU, machines beeping all around him. He had been in a bad way. He’d had a fractured pelvis, right femur and right arm, a serious head injury and was unconscious.

  Dawn had learned that not only had the car mown Michael down, but it had also deliberately reversed back over him. It had been touch-and-go for 48 hours, but thankfully he had pulled through. Although now, weeks later, he was limping around and frustrated he could neither go to work nor to the gym, he was on the mend. And, thankfully, he couldn’t remember anything about the accident, so suffered no flashbacks.

  In the days following the accident, colleagues had kept Dawn up to date, and she had quickly learned that the chief suspect was her ex-husband, Jack. Thinking that a hit-and-run accident had seriously injured your partner — and could have killed him — was bad enough, but learning that the culprit was your ex was even worse. And the man had heaped even worse misery upon her. Not content with damaging Michael, Jack had gone on the run, targeting her, planning to kill her in similar circumstances, and he had almost succeeded; she had just left the pub with some of her team after celebrating the fruitful end of a case, and was making her way across the car park, when Jack had driven his car straight at her. Barry Newstead had seen it and pushed her away, taking the full impact, killing him instantly.

  As that thought now entered her head-space, a vision of that night flashed inside her brain. Watching Barry fly over the roof of Jack’s speeding car, being dumped like a rag-doll, was still fresh and raw as if it had happened yesterday. She had tried to dull it several times with wine, but it was still there when she had sobered up. The legacy her spiteful husband had left her with was not going to go away quickly, and seeing Michael like this was a constant reminder. Also, Jack was on remand for one count of murder and two of attempted murder, with a court case pending, and so her ordeal with him still wasn’t over.

  “How’s it going with Billy Wallace?” Michael said, shaking her from her reverie. Setting aside his wooden spoon, Michael hobbled sideways to the fridge, poured a glass of Chardonnay, offered it to Dawn and returned to the bubbling bolognese, stirring it gently. “This should be another ten minutes.”

  Dawn took a slug of wine. The crisp refreshing flavours of pear and lemon sparked her taste buds, and surprisingly, immediately took the edge off her tension. Billy Wallace had been the cause of their coming together. Eighteen months earlier, while based in Scotland as a DCI, Dawn had been the Senior Investigating Officer overseeing the brutal murders of three retired detectives who had been murdered by Billy and his henchman Rab Geddes. Her team had discovered that the killings had been out of revenge — the three retired detectives had been responsible for getting Billy and Rab convicted and jailed for the murder of a young woman and her daughter back in 1970. The person who had given evidence against the pair of killers had been Hunter’s dad, and after being freed, following 36 years in jail, they had targeted the retired detectives to find out the new identity and location of Jock Kerr to carry out their revenge against him.

  Michael Robshaw had been Hunter’s boss, and during the investigation to apprehend Billy and Rab, Dawn had liaised regularly with him on the joint operation for their capture. At that time, she had just separated from Jack, after discovering his affair with a girl he worked with. She had just instigated divorce proceedings and, although not planned, she and Michael’s frequent meetings had been a refreshing series of moments and had resulted in a relationship forming between them.

  After the arrests of Billy and Rab, Michael had told her he was getting promoted to Force Crime Manager and suggested she apply for his job at Barnwell. The pressure of her marriage breakdown, the wish for a fresh start and the offer of promotion had been a great lure, and she had grasped it. Moving in with Michael after securing the post of Detective Superintendent had been the icing on the cake.

  Dawn took another swallow of wine before answering with, “It’s taken a nasty turn.” She told him about Hunter being attacked, his sighting of the stranger and how once again Billy had slipped the net up in Edinburgh. “He’s obviously got someone across on the island, and that’s worrying. Hunter assures me that he’s working well with the island cop, and it does seem as though he’s covered a lot of bases. Nevertheless, I would prefer it if a couple of my team were there as well to support him. The other thing I’m going to organise is sending up a couple of detectives to Scotland tomorrow to join forces with John.”

  Michael gazed over his shoulder. “Have you made a request to send a team across to Sark?”

  Dawn
shook her head. “It’s not something I’ve done before. I didn’t know the protocols. Do you?”

  Michael shook his head. “Never had any involvement with any of the Channel Islands before. Tell you what, I’ll put in a phone call tomorrow and find out what we need to do to send a team across. And if everything’s okay, I’ll sort the budget as well.”

  Dawn leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek. His unshaven skin prickled her lips. “Having the Force Crime Manager for your partner does have its perks.”

  “So, it wasn’t just my charm, charisma and leg-up for promotion you wanted me for, then?”

  Dawn glared at Michael, faking snake-eyes, tipping the point of her glass in his direction. “Michael Robshaw, how could you? I got this promotion on my own merit, and you know that.”

  He let out a hearty laugh and simulated a fisherman with a rod and reel bringing in a catch.

  “You’re intolerable, Michael Robshaw.” Dawn downed the remainder of her wine. Her day was ending on a high note.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Dawn Leggate got in to work early to check all the documentation and travel tickets were in place and to brief the two detectives she had selected to send up to Scotland. She had chosen Hunter’s working partner Grace Marshall, who was acting as temporary Sergeant in his absence, and Mike Sampson from his team. With regards to the contingent she wanted to send to Sark, she had two detectives in mind, but she was waiting to see if she had both authorisation and the budget before approaching them.

  Dawn checked her watch as she finished the last of her lukewarm coffee, saw that it was just after 7.30 a.m. and rang John Reed’s number. She knew he would be at work. John was a creature of habits. Like herself, when a job was running, his energy levels were at an all-time high and he practically lived at work until it concluded. She also knew that he was an ardent Rangers fan, and they had played last night, and the morning after a game he would always hold court in the office, providing his own analysis of the team’s performance with his colleagues. She could just visualise him now with his feet up on the desk, nursing a mug of tea against his chest, re-living the highlights of the game with whoever was in the office, whether they wanted to listen or not. Her call was answered on the second ring.