by KERRY BARNES
Praise for Kerry Barnes
‘A shocking, gripping read’
Dreda Say Mitchell
‘Sweeps along at a breakneck pace’
Anna Smith
‘Another cracker from Kerry Barnes. The Hunted is a rollercoaster ride!’
Jaime Raven
‘An absolute must-read from this talented author.’
Jacqui Rose
KERRY BARNES, born in 1964, grew up on a council estate in South-East London. Pushed by her parents to become a doctor, she entered the world of science and became a microbiologist. After studying law and pharmaceuticals, her career turned to medicine. Having dyslexia didn’t deter her from her passion for writing. She began writing when her daughter was born thirty years ago. Once her children had grown up she moved to the Kent coast and now writes full time.
Also by Kerry Barnes
Deceit
The Hunted
The Choice
The Rules
Kerry Barnes
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Kerry Barnes 2019
Kerry Barnes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008314781
To my Uncle Peter a kind and loving family man.
My cousin Sean Gable who told me he was proud of me.
Contents
Cover
Praise
Author Bio
Also by Kerry Barnes
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading
Coming Soon
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Lowry hurried down the corridor to the end room of the burns unit. Panting furiously, he impatiently moved aside the two police officers who were on guard duty. He stopped in his tracks as he entered the sterile-looking room. The silence sent his senses alive. He wanted to gasp but quickly put his hand to his mouth. He peered closely at what looked like clingfilm over the girl’s face and shuddered at the horrific sight. Was she once pretty? he wondered. It was so hard to tell. Her face looked like a mask of melted pizza. While one eye was entirely covered with wadding, the other was peeping out through the mangled mess. He jumped when he saw she was awake and looking his way. She must have known that he was staring with morbid curiosity. But, sadly, it would be something she would have to get used to. Her face would never look the same again.
Breathless, he stepped closer. A sheen of sweat covered his brow, his mouth became dry, and his hands trembled. He’d seen many injuries in his thirty years on the force, but this was the worst one ever.
‘Sonya, I’m Detective Lowry. Are you okay to talk? I mean . . . ’
Sonya Richards could barely move her lips with the swelling, but she’d been given a seriously massive number of painkillers to numb the pain. Only a small part of her face could feel intense throbbing. The rest was almost completely burned down to the bone, killing all the nerves.
‘Yes,’ she murmured.
It was hard to take his eyes away from her face, but he had a job to do. Pulling up a chair, he sat close to her bed. His pot belly hung over his suit trousers, and his wheezing increased; he needed to cough to clear his throat.
‘Can you tell me who did this to you?’
She closed her eye and tried to swallow. The acid had not only managed to rip the insides of her mouth but also the larynx. ‘Is my husband dead?’ she croaked, her voice barely audible.
Lowry fidgeted in his seat. The raw flesh around her swollen mouth crinkled, and he winced, almost feeling her pain. ‘Um, have the doctors spoken with you about . . . er . . . ?’
‘No, they said you would talk to me.’ Her voice was a gruff whisper.
He guessed she already knew the answer.
‘I’m sorry. Yes, he died at the scene.’
She nodded, still with her eye closed. ‘Do you think it was quick?’
‘Um, yes, it was. Do you know who did this?’
‘He was selling that drug.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘You know the one. Flakka, it’s called. He changed after that, you know. I never really knew him anymore.’
Lowry took out his pocketbook and began scribbling notes, allowing her time to get her words together; he could sense she was struggling. ‘Did he know the man who did this? Was he a dealer? Or perhaps a user?’
She shook her head again. ‘All I know is he’s called the Governor. He’s an evil man.’
‘The Governor? What does he look like?’
‘He’s a big man, a huge man . . . but he had a balaclava on his face, and so did the others, including the girl.’ She stopped and took a laboured gasp for air.
Lowry held his pen poised. ‘The girl?’
‘Yes, the girl. She was the one who did this.’ She slowly lifted her arm and pointed to her face.
‘Do you remember anything about this girl? Can you recall her age, her name, anything at all?’ He knew he was pushing her, but he had to get answers, in case she didn’t make it.
The drugs were obviously taking control as she began to talk more slowly. ‘No. You see as well as the balaclava, she wore a Mickey Mouse mask, and it was very dark. But I remember two things. She had long dark hair and she was young. She laughed at me, like a kid would, and then the men put a bag or a sack over my husband’s head. He didn’t stand a chance, they were so big . . . They were so big . . . so cruel . . . Why me?’ Her words were now slow and drawn-out. The drugs were taking hold.
Lowry stopped writing. The poor woman was asleep. He sat and stared at her and then studied his notes. This attack shocked him more than anything, and it wasn’t the first case. The whole world was going mad. Had the Devil come down to earth? he wondered.
***
Rebecca Mullins stared at her brother’s white face. ‘For God’s sake, Conrad, you need to keep this quiet. Father has pushed me forward for this opening, and I cannot let him or my husband down. It’s what you’ve all been working towards. How the hell wil
l it look if these latest events are splashed all over the news?’
‘And Brooke? What about her? She needs help!’ said Conrad in a low voice, as his eyes looked up to the ceiling of his sister’s kitchen, knowing his sweet niece was suffering somewhere upstairs.
Rebecca gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I am more than capable of looking after my daughter. She does not need a therapist or a bloody counsellor, she needs me . . . and’ – she paused as her eyes fell to the floor – ‘we don’t need any dirt dug up at this stage, do we?’
Conrad shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are those your words or Father’s? Honestly, Rebecca, is the idea of becoming a senior minister so important?’
Rebecca glared with fire in her eyes. ‘Ask Father that question.’
‘I don’t need to. I already know why you’re so cold and desperate in your quest for success. You have to prove to Father that you’re the person he wishes you to be. Making a few mistakes as a young woman doesn’t mean you have to do everything he demands to stay in his favour, you know.’
With a dismissive hand gesture, she closed the conversation and led her brother to the door.
***
Three Months Later, HM Prison Maidstone
Mike Regan had a huge grin on his face as he watched his son pot the black ball.
‘I think, my boy, when we get outta this shit pit, I’ll ’ave ta buy you a full-size table. If Ronnie O’Sullivan can make a living, then maybe you can too.’
Ricky chuckled. His face was beaming; he had just cleaned up, leaving his father with two yellow balls on the table.
Ricky placed his cue on the green baize. ‘Talking of which, Dad, will I be living with you then when we get out?’
Mike, at six foot seven, with shoulders that touched a standard doorframe, placed a meaty arm around his son’s shoulders. ‘Eleven years. I thought you were . . . er . . . well, you know. Now I’ve got you back, you ain’t going outta my sight.’ He ruffled Ricky’s floppy, wayward hair and stared into his childlike grey eyes that were laced with thick black lashes.
Their conversation was halted when Officer Patton came noisily marching towards them.
‘Fuck, I’ve only been ’ere three weeks. Surely, I ain’t getting put on report already,’ mumbled Mike, under his breath.
Patton, a slim man in his late thirties, stopped the other side of the pool table, where he looked up at Mike. ‘Regan, you have a visit.’
Mike frowned and looked at his watch. ‘Er . . . Gov, I haven’t booked a visit and it’s only ten o’clock. Are you sure you got that right?’
Patton nodded, and his eyes shot a sideways glance at Ricky. ‘They’re police officials. They want to ask you a few questions.’
Mike sighed and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Oh, fuck me. What’s going on now?’
Patton edged himself around the table and leaned closer to Mike. ‘I don’t think it’s about having you arrested. I could be wrong, but I think they just want to have a conversation with you.’
Mike screwed his face up. ‘Since when do the Filth just want a conversation? Look, d’ya think I need my lawyer?’
Patton shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t get the impression it was that sort of meeting . . . Listen, I wouldn’t normally tell you this, but a word in your shell-like.’ He edged even closer, so no one could hear. ‘It’s the Police Commissioner accompanied by a detective, and neither are dressed in uniform. You didn’t hear that from me, okay?’
With a deep frown etched on his face, Mike chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘All right. Are they here now?’
Patton smiled. ‘Yeah. Follow me.’
‘Hang on . . . My son. I don’t want to leave him on his own.’
Patton knew the score. Ricky came to the prison under the name of Richard Menaces. But when Mike arrived from Wormwood Scrubs, Ricky soon found the massive monster of a man was his father. Mike had believed his archenemy had killed Ricky, but the truth was his wife had run off with his son and pretended to Ricky that Mike was dead.
‘Ritz’s in the gym. You can join him, Ricky.’
A broad smile that showed Ricky’s dimples adorned his face. He loved Willie Ritz, who was one of his father’s best mates, and was happy enough to do a few workouts with him on the punchbag. He wanted to build up his skinny frame and be more like his father, who was probably the most prominent man in the prison.
Patton escorted Mike along the corridors and through reception before heading to a room at the back. It was similar to a police interview room. As Patton opened the door and stepped aside, Mike walked in. There, behind a long table, were two men, who quickly rose to their feet. Right away, Mike knew he wasn’t there to be arrested. No police official would have stood up in respect if that had been the case.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Regan,’ said the bigger of the two men. ‘I am Detective Simon Lowry, and this is Police Commissioner Conrad Stoneham.’
Mike politely nodded while sussing each man out in turn.
Lowry was dark-haired with pale skin and sores in the dip of his chin. His large hands also had very dry skin. Mike assumed the thickset man suffered from eczema. His other distinguishing features were his hooded eyes and the round belly that was prominent in the tight blue suit, which had seen better days. The collar on his pale-blue shirt was at least two sizes too small and was pinched by a navy-blue tie that appeared to strangle him. Mike guessed the detective was in his late fifties. The Commissioner, however, was much smarter-looking altogether. Dressed in a beige jacket, white shirt, and dark trousers, he could just as easily have stepped off a yacht. His silver hair didn’t match his dark eyebrows and wide-open green eyes. It was hard to assess his age, but he was probably in his late forties.
Lowry looked at Stoneham to start the conversation, but his boss was still eyeing over Mike and hoping he’d made the correct decision in coming to see him.
Mike was huge and unusually very self-controlled. His grey eyes were intense, and they revealed a lot about him. He was a no-nonsense, straight-up kind of person. There was no point in beating about the bush with Mike.
‘Mr Regan, I have a proposition for you. You have a parole hearing in a year’s time, and it is possible that you may be out in eighteen months, but your prison records suggest you may not get parole. The amount of time spent in solitary confinement doesn’t look good for you.’
He paused and waited for Mike to respond, but he was left feeling uncomfortable by Mike’s cold stare and tight-lipped expression.
‘So, would I be right in thinking you would like to see the back of this place sooner rather than later?’
Mike remained silent, much to the annoyance of Lowry, who felt he needed to jump in. ‘Well?’
‘Well what? You’re assuming a lot, gentlemen, and I’m still none the wiser as to your visit.’
Stoneham clasped his hands together and leaned forward. ‘This conversation is highly confidential, so whatever you decide to do after our discussion has to stay strictly between the three of us.’
Mike smirked. ‘Oh, come on. Seriously? I am in prison, so I owe you guys nothing. Therefore, don’t ask anything of me, unless I’m going to benefit from it myself!’
His words were firm and left Lowry with a positive view that Mike was the man for the job.
Stoneham nodded. ‘South-East London’s knife crime rate has hit an all-time high. We have a serious problem on our hands, and the fact of the matter is . . . ’ he sighed, ‘the gangs are growing bigger by the day. Harsher punishments to make examples of these characters aren’t a deterrent. The truth is, these kids, if you can call them that, are out of control.’
Mike’s face remained impassive. ‘So, what’s all of this got to do with me? Unless, of course, you think I can make a great therapist, in which case I charge by the hour. I just don’t get why you’re ’ere.’
Stoneham gave a short, uncertain laugh. It was a trait of his when he was at a loss what to say. It was quite clear Regan wasn’t going to
make things easy for him, and he certainly wasn’t buying what he’d come to tell him.
‘Let me answer that. I know you see me as the enemy—’
‘I never said that,’ Mike interjected. ‘Don’t tell me what I think, feel, or believe. You, Mr Stoneham, can only tell me what you factually know. Please don’t assume you know anything about me.’
Stoneham had done extensive research on Regan. He’d read every statement, every file, and he knew right this minute that all the previous quashed convictions were because this man was smart and premeditated. Even the rise of his eyebrow was done with thought. He also guessed that Regan would coldly torture information out of his enemies without even flinching. What he needed to be sure of was that Regan had a moral compass and an appreciation of the rules to keep the streets safe to walk on.
‘No, quite right. It’s probably a habit of mine, being in the police force since I left school.’
Stoneham knew he needed to come off his perch, lower his own guard, and be honest with the man, for Regan to trust him.
‘I know one thing about you, Mr Regan, and that is this. You’ve never been arrested for anything other than a few heists, and, of course, the murder of Scottie Harman, but I also understand you believed he had kidnapped your son.’
Stoneham watched Mike’s chest rhythmically move up and down as he breathed evenly.
‘I may have done the same if I had believed that he had kidnapped my daughter.’
Mike sniggered. ‘Come on. Don’t fuck with me. You’re the Filth, and I’m not. In your tiny mind, you would want whoever kidnapped your daughter, God forbid, dead. But would you do it yourself? Nah, not in a million fucking years. Why? Because the law runs through your veins and you would believe that your boys in blue would have the power to catch the person who did your family wrong. Me, all I have is my own blood running through my veins. You don’t believe in an eye for an eye, but I fucking do.’
‘And so, it appears, does your mother!’ exclaimed Stoneham, with a sharp tongue. He stared straight into Mike’s eyes and looked for just a hint of anxiety, but, again, there was nothing.
