by Lauren Algeo
Hikers
The Collection
Part One: Power / Part Two: Passion / Part Three: Politics
Brewer’s Journal / Georgie’s Story
By Lauren Algeo
Text copyright © Lauren Algeo 2017
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written warning must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
This work of fiction contains adult situations that may not be suitable for children under eighteen years of age. Recommended for mature audiences.
Table of Contents
Hikers – Part One: Power
Hikers – Part Two: Passion
Hikers – Part Three: Politics
Hikers – Brewer’s Journal
Hikers – Georgie’s Story
More books by Lauren Algeo
About Lauren Algeo
One last thing…
Hikers
Part One: Power
By Lauren Algeo
Text copyright © Lauren Algeo 2013
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written warning must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
This work of fiction contains adult situations that may not be suitable for children under eighteen years of age. Recommended for mature audiences.
Table of contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5 – 14th April 2009
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8 – 20th October 2009
Chapter 9
Chapter 10 – 15th May 2007
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25 – 6th March 2010
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33 – 29th October 1901
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Prologue
‘It’s time,’ the voice in his mind urged.
He felt a moment of doubt but couldn’t think of a rational reason why. He had been planning this for days; he was ready. They would all pay.
He slipped his right hand into the pocket of the large duffel coat he was wearing and felt the weight of the gun. He closed his hand around the cool metal and rested his finger on the trigger.
He stepped onto the escalator and surveyed the scene as it descended slowly into Waterloo’s main train station. It was lunchtime, and people were bustling to and fro in front of him – not as busy as rush hour in the morning or evening, but busy enough for him to blend into the crowd.
He felt a shiver surge through his body and he pulled the heavy black coat tighter around himself. The weather had begun to turn and he knew there were cold days ahead.
‘There! There!’ The voice whispered excitedly.
He looked towards a small crowd gathered round some video equipment, near the middle of the station. A TV actor was filming part of a drama series there today. He could see him sitting in a chair to the side of the equipment, being fussed over by a make-up artist. He felt a tug of anger as he focussed on the man’s smug face.
That should have been his life. He deserved fame, money, and recognition. Instead, he had nothing.
He walked towards the set slowly, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. He set his face in a mildly curious expression, as if he was just heading over to check out what was being filmed. A couple of others were doing the same but this was London and most people weren’t too bothered about minor celebrities when they had their own important lives.
The TV star was talking to a young woman who had just had her picture taken with him. She was giggling and toying coyly with her hair. He felt that ripple of rage again – women just threw themselves at celebrities. They were only a few steps away from him now.
The actor half-turned towards him as he reached them, a friendly smile on his face. He assumed the man was just another fan coming to say hello.
The man began to pull his hand out of his coat pocket. It looked as though he wanted to shake hands and the actor started to extend his own arm towards the man. Their eyes met for an instant and he felt that moment of hesitation again. Before he could comprehend it, his right hand was being thrust upwards and his thumb clicked off the safety on the gun.
‘Now!’ the voice in his head screamed.
The TV actor barely had time to register the change in intent before the man shot him in the chest. The sound was deafening, and echoed around the station, but the man barely noticed; all he seemed to hear was an insane laughing in his mind.
He turned swiftly and shot the young woman before the actor’s body had even hit the ground. His shot was wide of the target and only clipped her left arm but he didn’t care.
He twisted and turned, firing at anyone in his line of sight. He spun to the right suddenly and felt the gun being guided to a middle-aged man who had been walking past.
The man was frozen to the spot, his eyes wide with shock, and he had a sandwich dangling from his stiff fingers. He was wearing a dark pinstripe suit and carrying a brief case by his side.
The man thought he heard the voice whisper through its chilling laughter.
‘Bang.’
This time his shot was perfect, and he hit the man in the centre of his chest. His finger carried on squeezing and the gun bucked in his hand as he found more running targets. There was panic everywhere but the urgency that had consumed him seemed to be subsiding. The gun clicked empty and suddenly the crazy laughter
that had filled his mind was gone.
The world seemed to swim back to the man slowly. He looked around, confused. People were fleeing from where he stood and there were several others lying on the floor. He could see blood pooled around some of the motionless ones. Others were writhing around, trying to drag themselves to the safety of cover.
He looked down at the gun in his hand, realising what he had done. Now all he could hear was screaming.
Chapter 1
Scott Brewer pounded the map in frustration. He’d spent the day searching the eastern side of the city but he’d heard nothing. She was still out there somewhere, he was sure of it.
He leant back in the chair and ran his hands through his short, brown hair, peering intently at the map of Liverpool city centre. He had first heard the telltale scratching sound in his head near the Liverpool One shopping centre yesterday lunchtime. He’d walked around for hours trying to get closer but the sound had barely gotten to a light whisper.
It was a female hiker so he suspected the vessel would be a male. The females tended to choose men as they were more susceptible to a seductive, feminine voice.
‘Hikers,’ he spat under his breath. How he despised them. They were all that mattered in his life now.
Brewer got up from the chair and walked over to the small kitchenette to make some dinner. The hotel he was staying in was a cheap, self-catering place near the edge of the city. The amenities were basic, with only a microwave, kettle and toaster, so dining options were limited.
He had the urge to go out and buy some hot food; instead, he went to the small, creaking fridge in the corner. He reluctantly got the butter and cheese he’d bought earlier to make a plain sandwich, and pulled out a can of Guinness to wash it down with.
Dinner made, he went and sat back at the table and swiftly finished his unappetising meal. He had work to do. He took a swig from the can, not bothering to pour the drink in to a glass, and flicked on the tiny TV in the room for background noise, then he returned his attention to the map.
With a black pen, he marked the areas he had walked around that day then with a red marker, he made crosses where the irritating sound in his mind had been strongest. When he was done, he surveyed the results, looking for clues. His meandering route weaved across the map in a rough semi-circle but there were only half a dozen red crosses.
He studied the red marks for any patterns, although nothing jumped out at him. It was as if the hiker had been running parallel to him all day, and had occasionally gotten too close. He stared hard, until the pen lines blurred, then he half-heartedly circled some areas that he could search tomorrow.
The recent increase in deaths in the city had brought Brewer to Liverpool two days ago, and so far the hiker had evaded him. He put down the pen and wandered across to the small hotel bathroom.
The room he’d booked was open plan, with a combined bedroom, kitchenette and living area, and a small bathroom off to the left. The décor was unappealing – bare walls, beige carpet, bland bedcovers. It was all he needed while he was here.
He stripped off his grey jumper and dark blue jeans and turned on the water in the tiny shower cubicle. He glanced at himself in the mirror over the toilet while he waited for the water to heat up.
His hair was shorter than it had been, but he wasn’t losing it yet, and he was in pretty good shape for a man in his early forties. He’d always been lean, bordering on lanky, due to his 6ft 2in frame.
No sign of middle-aged spread here, he thought as he tensed his stomach muscles.
He waved his hand under the flowing water and decided that the lukewarm temperature was the best he was going to get. He stepped out of his boxers and manoeuvred in to the cubicle.
Brewer let the pounding liquid wash away the frustration he felt after the disappointing day. This was the closest he’d been to a hiker in months and he felt on edge.
A small part of him still couldn’t believe that this was his life now. A few years ago he’d had everything; a beautiful wife, successful career and close friends, then everything had changed.
They had just celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday, and their ten-year anniversary, when his beloved wife, Karen, had started getting crippling headaches. She’d tried to palm them off as bad migraines but Brewer had persuaded her to go to the doctor. That had signalled the start of the nightmare. Scans showed an inoperable brain tumour, and within months, Karen lost her battle.
He tried to remember her as the bright, vivacious woman he had married; only mental images of her gaunt, frail body at the end always crept in. He kept a picture of them on their wedding day in his battered wallet at all times, to remind him of a happier life.
Then the hiker had found him. Brewer shuddered involuntarily and stepped out of the shower. He dried himself with one of the stiff, white towels, feeling a pang of longing at memories of Karen. He tied the now-damp towel around his waist and wandered back through to the living-kitchen-bedroom area.
He rubbed furiously at his wet hair with a small hand towel, trying to dislodge the depressing thoughts that resided in his mind. He sat back down at the small table and had another look at the map.
The TV continued its broadcast of the early evening news, although Brewer didn’t pay much attention. It was only when they recounted the day’s top stories that his ears caught something.
‘… mass shooting in London’s Waterloo train station causes chaos.’
Brewer’s head flicked to the TV screen immediately and he groped for the remote to turn up the volume. British Transport Police would have handed this over to the murder squad detectives at his old Metropolitan police station, Lewisham.
The news cut to an on-scene reporter, who had taken up a position amongst dozens of others outside the station.
‘What can you tell us about the tragic lunchtime events?’ the female newsreader asked in her most serious tone.
The young, male reporter breathlessly described how a lone man had opened fire in the middle of the main station during the filming of a TV drama series. The death count was currently five people, with several others injured.
Among the dead was a prominent TV actor, Brewer recognised his picture when it flashed on screen, and a prolific politician, who had apparently been involved in putting together a controversial new bill, which the reporter didn’t go in to detail about. Brewer watched intently as the newsreader continued her report.
‘We can confirm that a man was arrested at the scene and is currently being held by police.’
A pixellated photo of a striking black man appeared on screen. He looked about Brewer’s age and had some grey creeping in to his otherwise dark hair. He seemed perfectly normal and Brewer could see nothing in his eyes that suggested a killer lurked inside.
‘He has been named as Jeremy Rankin and he remained at the scene after the horrific shootings. We’ll bring you more details as we get them.’
The camera cut back to the onsite reporter, who now had a nervous woman next to him. She had brown hair, which had been dampened flat by the drizzle, and she was chewing subconsciously at her bottom lip.
Brewer read the caption that flashed up underneath them as the reporter began to ask her questions. Her name was Tracey Woods and she was a witness to the shootings. Tracey became more animated as she recounted her terrifying ordeal.
‘… And if I hadn’t stopped in M&S, I would have been right there when he opened fire,’ she shuddered dramatically.
‘And you got a clear look at him?’ the reported probed.
‘Yes, I’ve given a statement to the police,’ she said defiantly. ‘There’s no doubt that the man the police have is the killer. He seemed crazy really. He was completely calm when he was shooting but when he’d finished, he dropped the gun and started crying and shouting hysterically. He was rambling about a voice in his head that told him to do it.’
The reporter asked her another question but Brewer had zoned them out. A voice in his head told him? Icy fingers of fear trailed u
p his naked back and he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck start to rise. A hiker’s voice?
Brewer stood up abruptly and began gathering his stuff together. The hiker he suspected was in Liverpool would have to wait, he was going straight back to London.
Chapter 2
Brewer slumped breathlessly on to the train seat. He’d managed to get on one of the evening trains back to London and it had been a rush.
His battered rucksack was blocking the aisle so he hoisted it onto the rack above his head and settled back into the itchy seat. The woman sitting in the window seat next to him gave a curious glance then went back to reading her book.
Brewer stretched his long legs into the aisle and looked at his surroundings. Although he was tall, he wasn’t a large man, yet people still seemed to give him frightened looks – as if he was going to attack them or something. Admittedly, he did look a little scruffy, but he’d seen weirder looking people. It had been that way since his first hiker encounter, as though people could sense something dangerous had lurked inside him.
The woman he was blocking in gave another sideways peek then angled her body towards the window. He sighed inwardly and shifted towards the aisle more, so as not to frighten her.
Brewer took his cheap, pay as you go mobile out of his pocket. It was a long shot, but he needed to find out more about the shootings. He scrolled through his limited list of contacts and selected ‘Marcus work’. He lifted the phone to his ear and listened to it ring a couple of times.
‘Hello?’ a gruff, male voice answered.
‘Hello. Can I speak to DI West please?’ Brewer asked.
‘Sure, who’s calling?’
‘It’s um, an old friend of his.’ He didn’t recognise the voice but he was reluctant to give his name, in case this man was someone he used to work with.
‘Listen, mate, if you’re calling from the papers there will be a full press conference at 9pm.’