On the Hunt

by Kerry J Donovan

  “Marian,” Danny said, standing close enough to offer support but not to intimidate, “this is Bill Griffin, a close friend of mine. He’s come to help us.”

  “Hello,” she said, looking at Kaine before turning to Danny and saying, “Robbie. My Robbie’s in danger.”

  Danny quietened her with a touch on the arm and a headshake.

  “I know. We’re on it.”

  Kaine secured the belt tight. The bleeding stopped, but Pataki’s arm below the injury matched the colour of Marian Prentiss’ bruises. The restriction in blood flow would cause so much tissue damage, he’d likely lose the arm, assuming he survived the upcoming interrogation. Still, after ordering Marian Prentiss’ death, the tiny Hungarian thug deserved no one’s sympathy, and certainly wouldn’t receive any from Kaine or Danny.

  Kaine ripped the handkerchief from the pocket of Pataki’s expensive-looking jacket and tried to clean the blood from his hands.

  “Robbie?” he asked, climbing to his feet.

  “Robert Prentiss,” Danny answered. “Marian’s husband. He’s in trouble. Come on, we can show you.”

  Danny touched Mrs Prentiss’ arm before leaning down, grabbing Pataki by the scuff of his collar, and dragging him inside the house. The injured thug tried to resist, but his heart wasn’t in it and Danny wouldn’t have put up with it even if he had been strong enough to kick up a fuss.

  Danny headed to the left and dragged his load towards an open door. Pataki squealed, tried to stand, but Danny was having none of it.

  Kaine gave up with the handkerchief and held it between finger and thumb. “Do you have anywhere I can clean up properly and dump this?”

  Marian Prentiss pointed to her right.

  “Through there … the kitchen … but it’s a real mess.”

  “Thanks. No need to worry about that for the moment. You go with Danny, but stay well clear of Pataki. No telling what he’s still capable of,” Kaine said, smiling softly. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”

  He waited for her to follow Danny and his barely struggling captive before heading into the kitchen. Marian Prentiss hadn’t exaggerated. As it stood, the kitchen would never make the pages of Ideal Home Magazine. It was, indeed, a real mess. Flies buzzed. They filled the air and crawled over dead meat and pools of claret.

  Danny had blown out the glass panel of one of the doors leading to the garden. A man lay face-down and unmoving in a pile of shiny, blood-soaked pellets. No point checking for life or for danger. No one still breathing could survive for long with his face buried in a pile of shattered glass.

  At the far end of the kitchen, a body hung over the bottom half of a stable door. The massive head trauma ruled out any chance of survival. No danger there, either.

  Nice one, Danny.

  The fact that Danny showed no signs of having been hit—or even overly stretched by the conflict—confirmed that he’d been his usual hyper-efficient self.

  Kaine ran the sink’s mixer tap until steam started to rise. Taking care to avoid the pieces of broken tumbler, he scrubbed his hands clean. The anti-bacterial soft soap in the fancy dispenser removed all traces of Pataki’s blood. Nice smell, too. Flowers of some sort. He dried off on a fluffy hand towel and draped it back over its hanger.

  He wouldn’t want to add to the mess.

  Somewhere in the other side of the house a woman screamed, “No!”

  Kaine raced from the kitchen, his motorbike boots squeaking on the polished tile floor. The corner of his eye registered a puddle of red behind the stairs—a blood pool he hadn’t noticed earlier.

  He slammed open the door Danny and Marian Prentiss had walked towards earlier. It opened into a nicely furnished reception room with a large-screen TV, a larger three-piece suite, and a few other pieces of expensive furniture.

  The huge leather sofa dominated the centre of the room, facing the enormous TV. Pataki sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa. Knees up close to his chest, head lolling to one side, injured arm cradled in the good one.

  Marian Prentiss stood facing the screen, arms down at her sides, fists clenched. Tears streamed down her face, and her shoulders shook. Danny’s hand rested on her upper arm trying to comfort the inconsolable.

  The image on the screen came from the desk-level camera of a PC or a laptop. Kaine could just make out the keypad at the bottom of the screen. The background showed an office with shelves filled with books and folders. To the left, a window let in the sun’s bright light, lending a warm yellow glow to the scene.

  In the centre of the picture, dominating the shot, a man’s balding head rested on the polished wooden desk. The head turned to the right, away from the bright daylight, and faced his right hand.

  Held loosely in the hand, a gun—a Beretta like the one stuck in Danny’s waistband—pointed at the laptop’s screen. Gunsmoke wafted in a thin cloud around the muzzle.

  The wound at the back of the head matched that of the man draped over the stable door in the kitchen. Blood and brain matter oozed from the fissure, still wet, glistening.

  The man was dead.

  Very dead.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday 3rd May – Morning

  Amber Valley, Derbyshire, UK

  “Robbie!” Marian Prentiss wailed. “Robbie. Oh my God … No.”

  Danny draped an arm around her quaking shoulders and lowered her into the settee. She scooted into the corner and folded in on herself, face in hands, knees curled up to her chest.

  On the floor at the foot of the settee, Pataki sneered at the screen. He snorted and added a weak chuckle.

  “You die next, assholes!”

  “Bastard!” Danny screamed.

  He leapt around the front of the rocking Marian Prentiss and stood over the sneering Pataki. The first blow—a left uppercut—snapped the man’s jaw shut and might have broken a couple of teeth. The second—a right hook—whipped Pataki’s head up and around to the left, slamming it into the settee’s wooden arm.

  As if on a loose spring, Pataki’s head returned to face front, then flopped down. The jaw dropped onto his chest, and his arms hung loose at his sides. The broken fool stopped laughing. Stopped talking. Might even have stopped breathing.

  Danny snarled, grasped a handful of Pataki’s hair, cocked his right fist in preparation for yet another punishing blow.

  Kaine reached out and grabbed Danny’s arm.

  “Sergeant. He’s had enough.”

  Howling, Danny spun. Rage filled his eyes. He tore his arm free, made to lunge at Kaine, but stopped. Breathing deeply, he pulled back and shook away the rage.

  He opened his fingers and released the tuft of white hair. Pataki’s head lolled. The added weight took effect and the unconscious man keeled further over, leaning away from the sofa. Once the sagging body reached past the point of balance, it toppled slowly to the side.

  Pataki’s head hit the tiled floor in a sickening hollow crack, but he didn’t seem to mind. Unconscious or dead men don’t seem to mind anything much.

  “Sir, I’m …” Danny broke off. He breathed hard, staring at the reddened knuckles on both hands. “Damn it. I’m sorry.”

  Kaine gazed down at their captive. “Not a problem, Sergeant. I understand completely.”

  “Not that, sir,” Danny whispered. “I meant, you know. Losing it like that. I don’t give a flying fuck about this sod.”

  “As I said, Danny. Not a problem.”

  Kaine bent to check the pulse at Pataki’s throat. Weak, but still present, surprisingly. Despite his emaciated appearance and the significant blood loss, the little Hungarian thug could certainly take some punishment.

  “My only slight concern is, this”—Kaine took a breath and chose his next words carefully—“fool’s in no position to answer our questions just yet. Shame that.”

  “Bastard deserves worse,” Danny said, glowering at the fallen Hungarian, whose chest expanded and contracted slightly—the only signs of life.

  A cough from the TV caught
their attention.

  “Can Corky do anything to help? Got loads of answers to plenty of questions, has your old buddy, Corky.”

  Mercifully, the image on the screen had changed. It no longer showed the mutilated head of Robert Prentiss, but it did show the unusually sombre face of their friendly neighbourhood “information acquisition specialist”.

  Kaine raised a hand for quiet. In a rare show of worldly understanding, Corky snapped his mouth shut and lowered his head a little.

  At the far end of the sofa, Marian Prentiss, still in a tight ball, rocked slowly. She sniffled and tears cascaded down her cheeks.

  “They killed Robbie,” she mumbled. “He’s dead. Oh my God. He’s dead. What am I going to do?”

  Danny turned but made no move towards her.

  “Corky,” Kaine asked, “is there any way you can put me through to the doc? We could do with her advice here.”

  Corky scrunched up his face in the approximation of an apology, and shook his head.

  “Nah. Sorry Mr … er, Mr G,” he answered, showing how closely he’d been listening to Kaine and Danny’s conversation, “but she’s what you might call indisposed right now. Right in the middle of a … er, little chat. Best not to disturb them unless it’s absolutely essential, if you ask Corky.”

  “Okay, Corky. Point taken.”

  “Yeah, well, you did arrange the interview in the first place.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  As if I’m likely to forget.

  After he and Danny saved her life, Melanie Archer had turned down Kaine’s offer to set her up with a new identity and relocate her to a place of safety. Instead, she wanted them to send her back to prison. Melanie wanted her day in court to clear her name and reputation.

  An honourable but suicidal goal. A goal which Kaine flat out refused to allow.

  Returning Melanie to prison would have taken her outside his arc of protection and placed her life in imminent danger—again. Kaine wasn’t about to let that happen. With no other options available he’d cut a deal. If she could convince DCI David Jones of her innocence, she’d stay under Kaine’s protection long enough for Jones to take up her case and, if possible, have the charges dropped. If not, she would take on a new identity and go into permanent hiding.

  Reluctantly, she agreed, which led to the next stage in the story.

  That morning, Kaine had visited the unimpressed police officer and “invited” him to interview Melanie Archer at Mike’s farm. Jones had refused, but accepted a compromise offer. He’d interview Melanie Archer via a highly secure video link that Corky had designed.

  Kaine wished Melanie good luck, and she needed it. Jones had been around the investigative block a few times and was no pushover. If Melanie could convince him of her innocence—as she’d convinced Kaine—Jones would move heaven and earth to help her. At least that’s what Kaine was banking on.

  By the time Kaine received Corky’s summons, Jones was already ninety minutes into the interview—an interview that would determine the rest of Melanie Archer’s life. With Danny in clear danger, Kaine didn’t hesitate to leave Melanie with Lara, Mike, and Connor Blake as her personal bodyguard.

  Kaine turned to face the TV screen.

  “Corky, did you see what happened to Mr Prentiss?”

  “Sure did. Got it all on camera.”

  The hacker winced and scratched the side of his face where dark whiskers showed clear against the paleness of his round cheek. His discomfort might have come from the beard, or from watching an actual murder in real time. Alternatively, not one to show much in the way of discretion, he might have been suffering from a bout of wind. Kaine could never tell with Corky.

  “Want Corky to play the vid, Mr G?”

  Question answered. Wind.

  Kaine glanced at Danny, whose expression showed a combination of shock and exasperation, and shook his head.

  “Just hold off a minute, please.”

  Kaine stepped over the comatose Lajos Pataki and approached Marian Prentiss. He dropped to his haunches in front of her, touched her shoulder, and let his hand fall away.

  Her head jerked up. She stared into the distance through bruised and swollen eyes that registered nothing but hurt and sorrow. Tears flowed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She ignored them.

  “Mrs Prentiss,” Kaine said, keeping his voice low, “I can only imagine what you must be feeling.”

  She blinked and more tears fell, adding to the damp patch on her blouse.

  “You can?” she said, her vacant gaze sliding up towards the TV screen which no longer showed the horror image that would remain with her forever. “Really?”

  Yes, he knew exactly how she felt, but it wasn’t the time for an extended discussion on their shared relationship with death.

  “We’re going to find out exactly what happened to your husband, and—”

  “We know what happened,” she snapped. Her voice strengthened and she focused on Kaine. “They killed him. Robbie would never have shot himself … not while … while knowing they were holding me captive.”

  Danny lowered himself to the seat beside her.

  “Marian,” Danny said, “is there anything else you can think of that might help us?”

  “I already told you what I know. They abducted R-Robbie outside his office and held us here for two, no, three days. Until just now, I had no idea what they w-wanted. I do know that Vadik Pataki wasn’t really in charge. He kept receiving phone calls and leaving the room. But Robbie knew. He must have known. H-He kept telling me we’d be safe … kept saying it would all be over soon.”

  She broke down again. More tears leaked from the damaged eyes and ran in tiny rivulets down her glistening cheeks.

  Danny leaned closer.

  “You said you didn’t know what they wanted ‘until just now’,” he said. “What tipped you off? It had something to do with the amount of money they were transferring, didn’t it?”

  She tried to dry her eyes with her fingers but without success. It only managed to spread the tears across her injured face. Kaine grabbed a couple of tissues from a box on the occasional table beside the sofa and held them out. She plucked them from his hand, scrunched them up, and dried her eyes carefully before continuing.

  “The money transfer, the one point five million euros, it’s exactly the same amount as we owe the bank. We re-mortgaged the house and took out an extra business loan to help us expand our operations into eastern Europe. It was a risk, but Robbie said it would pay off really quickly. Robbie … Oh, God. Robbie!”

  She worked the tissue again, taking care around the nose splint. Kaine gave her a moment before asking his next question.

  “The business loan, it wasn’t from a bank in Hungary, by any chance?”

  “No,” she said, sniffling. “We used Third Way Enterprise Limited. Based in Nottingham. The family has banked with them for years, ever since Robbie’s father set up the company back in the seventies.”

  “But you were expanding into Hungary?”

  She sniffled and nodded. “We set up a satellite distribution centre in Győr, using a local haulage company we found on the internet.”

  “Győr?” Danny asked.

  Marian Prentiss hesitated.

  “Sixth largest city in Hungary,” Corky answered for her, reading from a screen somewhere off-camera. “’Bout two hundred kilometres northwest of Budapest. It’s on the main through road to Vienna. Real close to the Danube. Apparently, it’s been a manufacturing centre for car engines since—”

  “Wikipedia?” Danny said. “Is that how you do it?”

  Corky pulled in his chin and his eyes popped, clearly affronted by the insult.

  “Bugger off, Danny-boy. Corky has his own information databases. He don’t rely on no public-access, poorly curated bag of sh—”

  “Thanks, Corky,” Kaine said, interrupting what was probably going to degenerate into a rant followed by a detailed explanation of his information-gathering pr
ocess. There wasn’t the time.

  The clouds of confusion started to peel away, and Kaine could see the clear sky of an explanation for the situation.

  “Mrs Prentiss, is there anywhere you can go? A relative or a friend? Somewhere we can take you for safety?”

  “No, no. I-I can’t leave Robbie … he needs me.” She shredded the tissues and clasped her hands together, pressing them firmly into her lap.

  Danny covered her hands with one of his and they disappeared beneath his beefy paw.

  “Marian,” he said, “Robbie’s gone. He’s beyond anyone’s help. We need to take you to a safe place. Those men, the Hungarians, they haven’t finished yet. They’ll be sending others to find out what happened to their mates. You can’t stay here, Marian. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I-I know he’s dead, but someone has to … to make arrangements. There’s the funeral to organise. No … not a funeral, a cremation. Robbie hated the idea of lying in a hole in the ground, rotting away. We spoke about it … Then I’ll have to notify the family. His brother in Australia. Someone has to tell them what’s happened. Everyone loved Robbie. They’ll want to attend.”

  She was rambling, finding it difficult to stay focused.

  “Mrs Prentiss, Marian,” Kaine said, speaking louder to gain her attention, “is there anywhere safe you can go? Somewhere we can take you? A sister or brother?”

  Startled, she shook her head, gathering her wits, her attention returning to the room.

  “Rainey. Robbie’s sister,” she said. “She’s lives in Grantham. Oh my Lord, she needs to know about Robbie. I’ll have to tell her, too.”

  Her hand reached into the pocket of her jeans and came out empty.

  “My phone, they took it. I-I don’t know Rainey’s number.” She started crying again. “Sh-She’s just moved house. I-I can’t remember her new address. No idea how to contact her. Don’t know what to do.” She turned to Danny. “Help me, please.”

  “We will,” he said, without checking with Kaine first.

  Kaine didn’t mind. No way was he going to let the Hungarians’ crimes go unpunished.