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

by Michael Fowler

“Is it always like this?” Hunter asked Phil.

  “During the day it is. Most of the tourists catch the four o’clock ferry back, so we get the island to ourselves in the evening. Come the end of this month, we’ll get very few visitors until next spring, so we have to make the most of it when we can to make our living. In the winter months, we do bits of garden tidying and road repairing and the like.” Following a short pause, Phil continued with his tourist preamble, pointing out a track that took them to a place called Les Autelets and Port du Moulin. “That is also a great area to walk. Some great rock structures if you’re into photography. And you get a really good view of Brecqhou from there.”

  Phil’s comments about the places reminded Hunter of his father-in-law’s mention of The Stacks being a good subject to paint, and he quickly determined that he would try and get a good photo of it.

  Traveling slowly along the backbone of the island, Phil pointed out a chapel and an old mill, giving them a potted history of the structures, and then a quarter of an hour later they came across the view Hunter had been waiting for. He had seen it a few times already, but only in photographs — the La Coupée — the narrow stretch of road that travelled across the isthmus, connecting Sark to Little Sark. Hunter saw that the road ahead initially dropped down at quite a steep angle before reaching the gentle sweep of track, and was just wondering how the horse was going to negotiate it with the weight of the carriage, when Phil pulled hard on the reins and slowed to a stop.

  “I can’t take you any further,” he said. “I’ll pull in here and you can get off and have a stroll across. Shall we say ten minutes? Then we’ll make our way back.” He helped them all off, pointing to the far end of the La Coupée, where he told them there was a natural viewing point that gave them a great outlook to both parts of the island.

  Jonathan and Daniel went off ahead at a trot, while the adults made their way steadily down the incline. Remembering yesterday’s saga, Hunter kept his sons firmly in his sight the entire time until joining them at the beginning of the single-track concrete strip. Here they all took a few steps onto the causeway and stopped to admire the view. It was breath-taking. Either side the sea rolled and swelled, gradually disappearing into the warm haze of the sky. The road was narrower than Hunter had thought, and down to his left there was an almost 150-foot sheer drop, which he found uncomfortable viewing. The other side of the track, the hillside sloped away less sharply to a long sweeping bay of dark sand. He could just make out a series of steps and a footpath meandering down the gradient. What he also noticed was the wind. It had been hardly noticeable until now, but here they were obviously exposed. Hunter could imagine that if the wind picked up, this would make for a very unpleasant crossing.

  They found the viewing point on the opposite side, and it certainly gave Hunter a great outlook. In the distance, breaking through the haze, he could make out an island, and guessed it was Brecqhou. Hunter took a photograph with his phone camera, but he could see the shot didn’t do justice to what was before him.

  Returning to the horse and carriage, they climbed aboard and began the journey back to where they had started out two hours earlier. Five minutes in, Hunter felt his phone vibrate. He fished it out of his pocket and saw that he had a text. It was from Budgie: Can you meet me in the Bel Air pub at 2?

  He showed it to Beth, whispering, “I wonder if he’s got some news? Is it okay if I go and meet him?”

  She nodded. “You’d better. We’ll go back to the cottage, and I’ll get us all some lunch. I’ll stay with the boys, and I’m guessing mum and dad will want to hang around. I might suggest we all go back to the beach for the afternoon.”

  Shortly after lunch, Hunter went off to meet Budgie at the Bel Air Inn. Budgie was already waiting for him, seated at a table in the courtyard. Hunter asked him what he wanted to drink before stepping into the bar. There were only three people seated at it, and a dark-haired woman in her late thirties was behind it, singing along to an eighties song playing from the music system. Hunter knew the song — ‘Hold Me Now’ by the Thompson Twins, and he remembered the album he’d been re-introduced to back at the cottage. What a coincidence. He hadn’t heard this song in a long time, and he joined in with the words inside his head. He and Polly used to sing along at the top of their voices to this one in her bedroom, causing her parents to shout up, telling them to turn the music down.

  For a couple of seconds, a flashback hurtled into Hunter’s thoughts, but just as quickly it was broken when the landlady stopped singing and asked him what he wanted. Hunter spotted good old Yorkshire ‘Black Sheep’ on draught, ordered a pint and a Coke and then returned outside. Only two other tables were occupied, both by couples, and Hunter gave them the once-over before joining the Constable, who was again wearing cargo shorts, T-shirt and walking boots. He’d make a great undercover cop, thought Hunter, sitting down and handing over his Coke.

  “Suspicious?” asked Budgie, flicking his eyes to the two couples at the tables, a wide grin across his face.

  Hunter returned the smile. “The job never leaves you.”

  “I’d already checked them out myself. You’ve got me looking at everyone with suspicion since you arrived.”

  “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that you can never be too careful.”

  “I guess not. Thankfully, I don’t have the same problems as you. Except for the odd drunken idiot or two in the summer to deal with, my work on the island is a lot more sedate.”

  “And on that note,” said Hunter, taking the head off his beer, “I got your text. Have you got something?”

  “No, but I just wanted to give you an update. I’ve put the word out, and I’ve shown Billy’s picture to a few people and no one remotely fitting his description has been seen. If he uses any of the facilities here, or does any shopping, I’ll know. I’ve also spoken with the fishermen; they know these waters and bays like no one else, and if they see anything unusual they’ll let me know. No one can be a stranger here for long. People are already talking about you lot.” Budgie gave a half-laugh. “If he turns up, I’ll be the first to know. Trust me.”

  Hunter took a longer drink of his beer. Then, exchanging looks with the Constable, he said, “I hope this doesn’t come across in the wrong manner, but Billy Wallace is a real nasty character. He’ll kill you as soon as look at you. He’s killed half a dozen people to my knowledge, and I’ve just been told he’s attacked another cop back home — poured petrol over him and set fire to him. If he turns up, it’s going to need more than a couple of you to take care of him.”

  Budgie’s mouth set tight. “And no offence taken. I do understand where you’re coming from. If he does turn up here, I’ll put in an immediate call to Guernsey and a team will be scrambled straight away.”

  “How long will it take for them to get here?”

  “Roughly forty minutes. They’ll come on the Leopardess. It’s the main patrol boat used by police and customs. Faster than the ferry.”

  Hunter took a deep breath. “Forty minutes is an awful long time.”

  Budgie locked eyes with him. “Look, I know this might seem a backwater to you, but there are almost two dozen Specials on this island, plus we have ten Reserve Firefighters. These are all resources I can call upon, and while they are all not as highly trained as the cops are back in the UK, these guys all work on the land and are quite tough so-an-sos when riled. Believe me, I’ve seen some of these guys scrap and I’m glad they’re on my side. Billy will have his work cut out if he shows his ugly mug round here.” Budgie drained his glass. “Just relax and enjoy your time here. Now, drink up and let me buy you another beer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Billy Wallace heard the ringtone of his new phone and dug into his jacket to pull it out. Before answering, he glanced at the screen. No name was displayed, but he recognised the number and answered, pressing it close to his ear.

  “He’s here,” the voice said excitedly.

  Billy smiled, and he took a ste
p sideways out from the queue he’d been standing in and found a space against a wall in the fast food restaurant. “Jock?” he answered mutedly, checking around him to see if anyone’s eyes were on him.

  “Yes, and that family of his. Looks like the entire lot of them. There’s another couple that’s joined them, man and woman in their fifties. They look pretty close to the lot of them, especially with that detective’s wife, so I’m guessing they’re her parents.”

  “Staying together?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t found where they’re staying yet. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous, especially with that detective. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out, though. There aren’t too many places they can be. I’m going to hang around in the village and wait for them to show their faces, then I’ll try and follow.”

  “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

  “You joining me soon?”

  “Yeah, should be just a couple of days. I think I’ve found someone who can bring me across on a boat. Just got a few things to sort out.”

  “Okay, don’t be too long.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Billy ended the call without saying cheerio, looking at the screen for a few seconds before pocketing the mobile. His smile became menacing. No one messes with Billy Wallace. He had been planning this ever since the guilty verdict. All he had thought about for the last eighteen months, while banged up, was how he was going to make Jock suffer. He cast his gaze around the restaurant again, looking for anyone whose look lingered longer than normal. Happy with what he saw, he re-joined the queue. Suddenly, he was famished.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Morning, Dawn, where are you? I’ve just tried your office.”

  It was DS John Reed. Dawn answered her mobile while looking in the hall mirror, checking her face and hair. She pulled at the collar of her white blouse, re-arranging the neckline. “I’m just on my way in.”

  “Having a lie-in? That would never be allowed on my watch.”

  “You cheeky devil, John Reed. I was on call last night and didn’t get into bed until

  three this morning.”

  “Well, you wanted the promotion. Don’t gripe with the responsibilities it brings.”

  “I wasn’t griping. I was just telling you… Argh!” Dawn let off an exasperated cry. “Anyway, what do you want? What’s so urgent it can’t wait until I get into the office?”

  “We think we’ve found him!”

  “Billy Wallace?”

  “Yes, we think he’s holed up in a flat in Motherwell.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “A snout of mine overheard a conversation in a pub a couple of nights ago. I’m just following things up — doing a few checks. I’m told the flat is owned by an ex-squaddie, who’s now on civvy street, doing security work. Apparently, he’s been flashing loads of cash around and telling people he ‘got it doing a job that’s in all the papers.’ I’ve been given a name, but there’s nothing on him on our system. But I’ve also been told the guy did a couple of tours in Afghanistan, so I’ve put in a request to army records. I’m waiting for them to come back to me. I’ve got a couple of my team going over to the flats this morning to make some discreet enquiries and see if I can get confirmation. Even better, try and get a sighting of Billy. If I get anything, I’ll come back to you. Could be later today. You’re going to be in the office, aren’t you?”

  “Do I detect sarcasm there, John Reed?”

  A burst of laughter came down the phone. “I’ll get back to you later, Dawn, one way or the other.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.” Ending the call, Dawn returned her mobile to her bag, picked up her car keys from the hall table, checked her hair again in the mirror, shouted ‘cheerio’ to her partner Michael, and let herself out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In the Operations Room at Glasgow Central Police Station, there was a piquant atmosphere. Chief Inspector Ian Hamilton was acting as Gold Commander, directing the operation to capture Billy Wallace, and was currently viewing body-camera live-feed on the large screen monitor at the front of the Ops Room; the heavily armed contingent had just sneaked out of the back of the white van they had been transported in and were approaching the flat where Billy had been tracked to. Behind Ian, looking over his shoulder, was DS John Reed, keeping up with the jerking images as the team dashed through the foyer entrance and made for the stairwell.

  The raid party were kitted out with Kevlar vests and MP5s, with tasers and Pava spray for backup, because this was a no-chances takedown; guns had been pointed at prison staff to assist Billy’s escape, and it was more than likely that the guys in the flat with Billy still had their weapons. On the landing of the second floor the footfall suddenly came to a halt, and the screen became filled with the top section of a green door, number 24, coming into focus. For a brief moment, there was a jigging around as the officer wearing the body-camera stepped back to allow the cop with the big red key to move forward. The shout of ‘Armed Police’ went up, and then the steel enforcer bashed open the wooden door after two solid thrusts.

  Suddenly, everything became a blur. Brief glimpses of a staircase, part of a hallway, and figures in black fatigues flitted in and out of frame as they burst into the flat. To an onlooker it might have been seen as chaotic, but John Reed knew this was a carefully orchestrated assault to capture an escaped psychopath. After several calls of ‘Clear’, which John knew was the signal that rooms had been visually swept, and their intended target wasn’t present, there came another cry that they hadn’t anticipated. “We have bodies!”

  Ian Hamilton quickly looked over his shoulder, met John’s eyes and returned to the screen. The officer wearing the camera was now mounting the flat’s staircase at a fast pace. As he reached the upstairs landing, he came to a stop. A man’s body came into focus. He was half-slumped, with his legs spread awkwardly across the floor and his back pressed against the wall. His dark-haired head hung down, chin resting on his upper chest. There was a long stream of blood staining his white T-shirt and running onto his upper arm. As the camera settled on his face, John could see it wasn’t Billy. He could also see the neatly punched dark hole amid the dried blood-splatter, just below the right eye, that told him he had been shot.

  The camera jerked again as the officer stepped over the prostrate body, moved across the landing and entered a bedroom that had the light on. Within a few seconds, the officer became stationary once more, and images of a man and a woman slumped on a bed came into view. The man’s head was flat against the pillow, a pool of blood haloed around it. His eyes were shut and his mouth open. He was bare-chested, a duvet covering him from the waist down. Again, it wasn’t Billy. Next to him lay a dark-haired woman, who looked to be in her late twenties. Her head rested to the side, below the pillow. She was wearing a white cotton sleep-shirt. Where her head lay against the bottom sheet there was a splodge of dried blood. Both had been shot in the head.

  “Any sign of our target?” Ian Hamilton asked over the airwaves.

  “Target not here,” came the response. It was the female Sergeant leading the raid.

  Chief Inspector Ian Hamilton looked back over his shoulder. “Well, that’s not gone accordingly to plan, has it?” Sighing, he added, “You’d better get over there, John. Looks like you’ve got a crime scene to take charge of.”

  After checking that there were a couple of forensic suits in the boot of the CID car, DS John Reed tore over to the bloodbath in Motherwell. He arrived at a scene where the approach was already organised; blue and white tape had been strung across the road, and officers in high-vis were deflecting unwanted attention.

  As he parked the car, John saw the press were already there in numbers, including a film crew, and he was mightily glad the security had been put in place to prevent them tramping around. Being as furtive as possible, keeping himself tucked behind the rear of the CID car, he climbed into his forensic all-in-one, keeping his eyes on the gaggle of journalists
chatting among themselves. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself and get caught in their swarm, especially knowing the story so far. It was certainly going to make the leading news by lunchtime. The Prison Service was in for a bashing, there would be criticism of government cuts, and his Force would be under pressure to capture Billy Wallace — and soon.

  John knew this was a high-stakes investigation — his career could elevate or fall depending on the outcome — and the last thing he wanted was to be pressurised into making a comment that he might regret later. Pulling up his hood and keeping his head down, he quickly made a beeline for the outer cordon. Edging quickly around the group, he avoided their questions, flashed his ID to the two officers guarding the sterile area and made his way to the block of flats. DC Craig McDonald, one of his team he had assigned to the raid, was standing by the entrance. He was also in a forensic suit, its hood up, but mask dangling below his chin.

  John greeted him with a nod. “Well, this is something I hadn’t planned for, Craig. Can you fill me in?”

  “As you know, Serge, we have three bodies, all shot in the head. The flat is registered to an Alec Jefferies and his partner Mary Brown. We haven’t confirmed it, but we believe they’re the ones in bed. We don’t know who the dead guy on the landing is, but we’re guessing he was probably the other person involved in Billy’s escape.”

  “And no sign of Billy?”

  The DC shook his head. “The team have done a full sweep of the place. No sign of him. We’re just starting house-to-house.”

  “And forensics?”

  “Team on their way. So is the pathologist.”

  “Good. What’s it look like to you? Do you think they’ve been dead long?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought too long. Although the blood is dry, there’s no smell to suggest they’ve been like that for more than a day or two.”