The Hunted

by KERRY BARNES

  He walked over to the sofa and sat down, pulled the letter from the envelope, and began to read.

  Dear Mike,

  I am sorry for using your beautiful cottage to take my life. I intended to end it today because September 29th was the day I met your father. I loved him very much. I hope if you find me, I haven’t left a mess. Please would you ensure the other letters go to the intended? It’s strange because it seems that you are the only person I can trust. Maybe it’s because I trusted your father and you remind me so much of him.

  I wish you every happiness in your life.

  Doris

  Mike felt another tear working its way down his face. The last few days had been very draining. Now finding a woman so heartbroken that she’d ended her own life was driving him to behave entirely out of character. But first, he now had to weigh up the pros and cons. Contacting the Filth was a no-no in his line of work. Nevertheless, it might be the quickest way for him to establish his innocence once the police had done their homework. And it seemed the best solution to clear his name quickly, so he could focus on searching for his son. The downside was that the search for his son would be delayed by a good two days.

  Emotions were running high in his head. Instead of seriously thinking things through, he picked up the phone and made the worst decision of his life – he called the police. However, before they arrived, he took photos of the letters and the album and hid the camera under the floorboards. If that evidence went missing, at least he had proof.

  With a warrant out for his arrest for the gruesome murder of Frank Harman, the police arrived in droves, with flak jackets, guns, and dogs. As he opened the door, a firearm was aimed at his chest. Slowly, he stepped forward, with his hands above his head. He expected no less. Two officers grabbed him and threw him over the bonnet of a police car and cuffed him. Radio conversations could be heard, the cottage was taped off, and a black van arrived containing the forensic team. He remained silent with his face pushed against the metal of the police car bonnet. He didn’t struggle either; there was no point in risking being hurt or shot.

  The officers surrounding him parted like the Red Sea for Moses, to make way for the detective. Mike didn’t recognize him because he was from the Sussex Police. He knew they would go over the top – probably see him as a serial killer.

  The detective inspector was a scruffy, short individual, with a few strands of unruly hair blowing in the breeze. He had an unkempt grey beard and bushy black eyebrows. His pale-blue shirt was tight against his beer belly and his black slacks were shiny from being ironed rather than dry-cleaned.

  ‘Mr Regan?’

  The officer pulled him upright from the car to face the DI.

  ‘Yes. That’s me.’

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Hornsby.’

  Mike nodded but remained expressionless.

  ‘Do you know we have a warrant out for your arrest?’ His voice didn’t match his appearance. Mike expected him to have a squeaky, slimy voice, not a deep, commanding tone.

  Mike shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Right, from what the Met DI tells me, you’ll know the drill. So, Michael Regan, you are under arrest for the murder of Frank Harman. Anything you say can and may be used in evidence against you …’

  Once Hornsby read him his rights, Mike smirked. ‘Sorry, but my name isn’t Michael Regan.’

  Hornsby raised an eyebrow and looked back down at his notes. ‘I just asked you if you were Michael Regan and you nodded.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You asked me if I was Mr Regan, which I am, but I am not Michael. My name is Mike.’

  Hornsby flared his nostrils and waved his hand. ‘Same bloody thing.’

  ‘No, actually, it’s not. My name is Mike, not Michael. It never has been and never will be. Now, you want to get this right, Detective Inspector. No slip-ups. I want to get down to the station, get this shit cleared up, and leave.’

  With a loud chuckle and a shake of his head, he scoffed. ‘Oh, dear me, you’re a right one, mate. You, Mike Regan, won’t be going anywhere.’

  With no emotion on his face and his shoulders back, Mike gave a slow nod. ‘Okay, Detective Inspector, then let’s get this over with, shall we?’

  Hornsby glared with narrowed eyes. That was usually his line; and yet he thought it would be prudent not to argue the point. This titan of a man was cold and calculating.

  ‘Oh, before we go, there are letters inside from Mrs Harman. One is addressed to the police commissioner and one to her lawyer, and then one is mine and there is one for my father. I trust you will see to it that they end up in the right hands?’

  Hornsby frowned. ‘What are you insinuating?’

  Mike smiled. ‘That question right there suggests you have a sinister mind. What I’m suggesting, Detective Inspector, is that you would ensure those letters are rightfully given to the names on the envelopes.’

  Hornsby felt his face flush. He huffed and turned away to give his team orders to clear the area and allow forensics access. One of the officers opened the car door, and before he even had a chance to push Mike’s head down to get in, Mike beat him to it.

  With one officer in the back seat and two in the front, they pulled away, tailing another police car. The DI followed in the car behind. The radio beeped, and Mike could hear Hornsby saying, ‘We have to take the suspect to Maidstone. It looks like they have a team already on the case.’

  Mike hoped that Detective Inspector Evans was up for leading the investigation; he would have this mess turned around in record time, allowing Mike to be back out and home. Evans had taken a good few quid from the Regans. Even though he was an arrogant bastard, he was greedy and never gave the force a second thought if he was going to collect a decent wedge to line his deep pockets.

  As soon as they arrived at the police station, Mike was steered through into the back, to the custody suite. Having been pulled in numerous times, he knew it well. However, he had kept his nose clean as far as they were concerned. His firm was tight and his business even tighter; at least it had been, until the Harmans had made themselves busy.

  The custody sergeant noted the contents of Regan’s pockets, wrote down a few details, and then an officer led him into a cell, minus his shoes and belt.

  Unlike many people entering a police cell, Mike was not nervous, angry, or frustrated; he was calm and went with the flow. Just as he lay on the cold blue plastic-coated mattress, the door opened.

  ‘Regan, you can make your phone call.’

  Mike jumped up, turned his back to have the cuffs replaced, and followed the custody sergeant out to the phone. He reeled off the number that he’d memorized. The sergeant dialled it and then held the phone to Mike’s ear. No way were the handcuffs coming off. If Mike wanted to kick off, they knew it would take four burly officers and a stun gun to bring him down.

  ‘Zara, it’s me. Call Brandon and tell him I’m at Maidstone nick. Mrs Harman’s topped herself. Call me brother, tell him what’s happened and …’ He looked at Grant, the custody sergeant, who was clearly trying to eavesdrop, and glared for him to move away. Grant shoved the phone under Mike’s chin so that he could clench it in place. The officer then stepped back. Comfortable that he was not having a three-way conversation, Mike went on, ‘Tell Izzy to get me back what’s mine.’

  ‘Mikey, listen, I er, I mean, I care …’

  ‘I know, Zara, so please do as I ask.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Mike lifted his chin, released the grip of the phone, and allowed it to tumble down and almost bounce off the floor. As Grant grabbed the receiver, he sneered at Mike and nodded to another officer to escort him back to his cell.

  Once he’d nervously uncuffed Mike, the officer locked the door and returned to the main custody desk. ‘Fuck having a row with that big fella. If he did what they reckon he did, he’s one dangerous psycho.’

  Grant rolled his eyes. ‘Too much TV, if you ask me. Mike Regan has been pulled in here more times than I’ve had
hot dinners, and not for killing oldies either. I know his type. He’s ruthless, yes, but only with his own kind.’

  Just as Grant was about to launch into the history of the villains from Bermondsey, the door swung open and in walked Connor Rollinson, a new detective. It was the first time that Grant had laid eyes on the man. The description his colleagues had given him wasn’t far off. With a slight build, around five foot eight, he was dressed like a gangster and had a grin that would irritate a blind man.

  ‘So, where’s Regan?’ There was no hint of civility coming from the man’s mouth, just a hostile tone to his voice and an evil glint in his lively eyes. He stood with his hands on his hips, his mousy hair slicked back, and sporting a neat goatee. No one would ever have guessed that this cocky shit of a young man would be leading this serious crime investigation. Grant was laughing inside. The new DI may have met his match.

  ‘Take Regan down to the interview room and then bring along a couple of teas, will you?’

  Grant carefully moved his fringe away from his eyes. ‘Cake and biscuits with that?’

  Rollinson was about to walk away but stopped dead in his tracks and spun around, a cheeky childish giggle leaving his mouth. ‘Yeah, why not.’

  ‘Prick,’ muttered Grant, under his breath.

  Mike was taken to the interview room and left alone with just his thoughts and the hope that DI Evans would make an appearance. As the door opened, in walked Rollinson, who arrogantly slapped his interview notes on the table, removed his leather jacket, and pulled out a chair. Then he eyed Mike.

  Mike didn’t even twitch a muscle on his face. He stared and waited.

  ‘So, Mr Regan, this is how it’s gonna work. I will ask the questions. You answer them. We write a statement. Job done.’

  Mike remained silent, thinking what a lemon this DI looked and sounded.

  ‘So, for the recording, please state your name and date of birth.’

  Mike didn’t answer; instead, he tilted his head to the side and looked at Rollinson as if he was an idiot.

  ‘Oh, I see. So, you are going to express your rights by a no comment?’

  Mike laughed. ‘No. I’m waiting for my brief. So, until he’s present, there’ll be no interview.’

  ‘I get it, Mr Regan, so let’s go off the record. You and I can have a little chat.’

  ‘On or off the record, there will be no conversation until my lawyer is present. And if I know Brandon, he’ll already be at the station, so don’t waste your time or mine.’

  Rollinson stood up so fast the chair flipped over. He stormed from the room but returned within five minutes, with Brandon Miles on his heels. The detective’s eyes burned into Regan’s and his jaw tightened; he was in charge and he wasn’t going to have the likes of this man – some hotshot who’d managed to escape the law on more than one occasion – get one over on him.

  Miles was in his mid-forties, a tall and smartly dressed man. His father was good friends with Mike’s, and although they had chosen different paths in life, they both came from the same background. Miles winked and shook hands with Mike. He then turned abruptly to face Rollinson. ‘I need a meeting with my client … alone.’

  Rollinson left, slamming the door behind him – again.

  ‘What the fuck is going on, Mike? I’ve not had a wink of sleep. They’ve kept the lads in for hours. They just got out this morning and now you’re inside.’

  ‘Fucking ’ell, Brandon, it’s a long story, mate.’

  Miles nodded. ‘Well, I charge by the hour, so take as long as you like.’

  ‘Listen. They have letters and an album that belonged to Mrs Harman, er … Doris.’

  Miles opened his briefcase and pulled out a letter. ‘Don’t worry. Mrs Harman sent me a letter. It arrived at my office this morning. I guess she didn’t leave anything to chance. It says she killed the old man. I can prove she wrote it too because I am acting as her lawyer, so I have her signature. Fucking mental, eh? She knew my dad and yours. She made a will a few years ago, leaving her half of the house to the Cats’ Protection League.’

  ‘What am I doing in here, then?’ asked Mike.

  ‘Give me a chance. When I received the call that you were here, I was in my office reading this letter.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘I’ll get the DI in and present him with the evidence. It’s not a get-out-of-jail-free card, and they may want to make further investigations. But I think they know he was poisoned. Something about fairy cakes.’

  Mike’s eyes widened. ‘Fuck me, Brandon, I nearly ate one of ’em. I thought it tasted so rank, I spat it in the bin.’

  ‘Yep, I know. They found it and did a DNA test.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t bloody poison meself, would I?’

  ‘You know how it works, Mike. They have to gather enough evidence to go to the CPS, and they can’t fuck this up. The man was found in a right state. Sit tight, and within forty-eight hours, we’ll have you out of here.’

  Without warning, Rollinson burst into the room.

  Miles jumped up. ‘Our meeting isn’t over.’

  ‘Well, it’s lucky you’re here because, Mike Regan, you are now being charged with the murder of Scottie Harman. Where were you yesterday afternoon?’

  Miles’s mouth opened, and he slowly turned to face Mike.

  Rollinson had a conceited grin plastered across his face, watching Mike’s shoulders slowly slump. His face drained and his eyes clouded over.

  Miles gaped in horror at Mike visibly crumbling. Never before had he seen him look so vulnerable. The big powerful man with confidence oozing from every inch of his body suddenly shrank like a deflated balloon. Miles knew then they had his client banged to rights.

  Numb from the waist up, Mike couldn’t take it in. No way could they pin that on him. Not unless someone had grassed. His lips tingled from shock, and his mouth felt as though he was sucking a piece of chalk. This couldn’t be happening, surely?

  ‘Scottie Harman was found this morning in an old oil pit two miles from your premises. Traces of his blood were found on the floor of the lock-up. Harry Harman claimed he received a phone call stating you were holding his brother, and that you’d threatened to kill him.’

  Mike realized it was over. Someone who knew him well must have given the police that information. Only a handful of his closest men knew about the pit. He didn’t know what felt worse – the thought of being nicked for murder, or the notion that one of his closest friends or family had sold him down the river. He was now in an unthinkable position. How would he find his son, and who could he trust to help him?

  PART TWO

  Chapter 11

  2003, a year later

  Jackie was sipping a glass of vodka and staring across the field when Cora Smith rapped on the door. ‘Jax, me boy’s got a good bit o’ gear. Juicy Couture. Velour. Your size.’

  ‘Come in, Cora. The door’s open.’

  Cora was in her mid-thirties, a stick-thin woman, with black dyed hair and an orange fake tan. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a bright-green crop top, which showed her stretch marks, each one from a new pregnancy, six in all.

  She was up the aisle at the age of fifteen and had produced her first son just before her sixteenth birthday. Married to Seth’s son, Tatum, Jackie’s second cousin, Cora knew no different. It was the gypsy way to be wed at such a young age and conceive as soon as the wedding night.

  Tatum wasn’t such a lousy husband. He provided a good caravan and put food on the table, but when he went out partying, she had to stay at home and care for her ever-growing family. Seeing her father and her uncles doing the same, she accepted it as just a way of life.

  When Jackie had arrived back at the site, with a new state-of-the-art caravan, car, and cash in her back pocket, she was accepted but kept at arm’s length. She’d lived the gorger life, and her son wasn’t a pure gypsy. She told them that her husband was a grass, a no-good man, who didn’t provide for her or the boy. Everything she had, she e
mphasized, had been from her own efforts. At first, they were sceptical, but as she followed tradition and kept herself out of their business, they started to bring her into the fold.

  Tatum had his eye on Ricky; he clocked how quickly the kid could move. They called him the Quiet One, and as the months rolled on, he was given the name Mouse.

  ‘So, what’s he got?’ Her accent was back, but unlike the others, she spoke more slowly. Cora, however, spoke so fast she could have been on speed.

  ‘This is all tasty gear. I’ve all the colours, a score each.’ Her face was eager and alive, as she chewed on gum which made her huge gold loop earrings dance. She frowned as she looked around Jackie’s caravan. ‘’Ere, whatever’s the matter with ya? My Tatum would muller me if I let me van get as dirty as this, girl. Ya wanna get the duster out and a bit o’ Dettol. It smells really shitty.’

  ‘My van, my mess, not your fucking business, Cora.’

  Cora knew she had to reel her neck in. She could see the pound signs dwindling away if she upset Jackie.

  ‘Yeah, ya right, girl. Anyway, d’ya wanna give the tracksuits a go?’

  Jackie sipped her drink and nodded. ‘Bring ’em ’ere, then, Cora.’

  Cora was looking uncomfortable. ‘Er, Tat don’t want them leaving the van. Any chance ya could come over and—’

  ‘Listen. If Tatum wants to sell ’em, tell him to bring ’em to me.’

  Cora sensed there was something going on between her husband and Jackie, but she was far too naive to realize the truth. ‘I’ll tell ’im, Jax. Ya got any baccy? I’m clean out.’

  Jackie stood up from the table and opened a kitchen drawer filled to the brim with cigarettes. Cora gawped at the amount. ‘Cheers,’ she said, as Jackie handed her a packet.

  She wanted to get in with Jackie because Jackie always seemed to do all right for herself. For a start, she was never without money, and her van was full of top gear, including all the latest gadgets. It was different inside her own trailer. Hers was in an older style, with plain sofas and a small oven, in which she had to cook two lots of food for her brood. Tatum merely slapped her one when she complained about the time it took. ‘Be grateful you ain’t cooking outside on the fire!’ he shouted at her.