Billy Wallace’s eyes were wide and staring and glistening with hate.
In the distance Jock could make out the faint wail of a siren; he knew the police were on their way and a wave of relief washed over him.
There was a stand-off as Jock scrutinised Billy who was motionless staring back at him.
Billy lifted his hand and dragged a finger across his exposed throat — a slow slashing movement. He gave him a menacing smile before turning and easing himself into the front passenger seat of the car behind. The door was still open as the wheels squealed on the wet tarmac. It shot away from the kerb and screamed towards one of the side streets.
* * * * *
Hunter sank into his armchair with his tumbler of single malt whisky. He savoured the moment of his first sip, feeling the pleasant after burn, first tickling the back of his throat, then his gullet, and finally his stomach. It was a wonderful feeling. Removing the glass from his lips he eyed the contents and then swilled the amber liquid around listening to the chink of ice against the cut glass.
It had been another long day.
He took another small sip, this time holding it in his mouth. Momentarily he closed his eyes as the oak-aged flavours caressed his taste buds. He swallowed.
Moments like this were rare these days.
An hour ago, as promised, he had managed to get home — in time for Beth to make her ‘girls’ night’ appointment. He hadn’t even had time to take off his jacket before she was kissing him on his cheek and telling him his salmon was in the microwave and just wanted heating up, and there was some salad in the fridge.
“I’m only round the corner at Julie’s,” she shouted back over her shoulder. “You know where I am. See you about eleven,” she finished as she disappeared out of the door.
He’d only just managed to get Jonathan and Daniel settled down. They had finally let him go after three short stories. As he’d ruffled their hair affectionately and kissed their foreheads before tucking the boys up it had jolted his conscience; he sometimes wished he had more time for this.
He picked up the remote from the coffee table and powered on the TV; he would try and lose himself for a couple of hours before Beth got home.
He took another glug of whisky and listened to the sounds of the house. The central heating pipes creaked somewhere upstairs beneath the floorboards. He pushed himself back into his armchair feeling himself relax. He swilled the contents around again; the tumbler was almost empty.
One more, and then that’s it.
He enjoyed a drink at home but it was never more than a couple to unwind. He’d seen too many of his counterparts use it as a crutch to ease away the tensions of the day and now found themselves relying on it too much. For some, drinking had become second nature and he’d seen the disastrous consequences which had resulted. It had made him determined not to go down that route.
Twenty minutes later as he set down his second empty glass he could feel his eyes becoming heavy. He was close to exhaustion.
Time to call it a day.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer. Not even for Beth. Never mind, he knew she would understand.
As he pushed himself up the phone rang.
He eyed the handset and saw his parents name’s light up on the screen. He slipped it out of its stand.
His mother’s voice screamed down the line. The panic in her cries rattled him to the core. He tried to interrupt whilst attempting to make sense of her high-pitched ramblings. Finally, unable to get a word in, he just shouted, “I’m on my way!” and then ended the call.
He speed-dialled Beth’s mobile; she was only two minutes away, and then bolted upstairs to sling on his jeans and a sweat top. By the time he had got downstairs Beth was almost falling through the front door. Her face flushed.
“Sorry about this,” he said, snatching up the car keys from the hallway table “Something’s happened at mum’s! I’ll ring you as soon as I find out what!” He shouted as he sprinted out of the house.
* * * * *
Hunter raced at break-neck speed towards his parents’ home. The tiredness he had experienced ten minutes earlier had gone, and it was if he had never touched a drink that night. He was as alert as ever and his mind was trying to make sense of the hysterical screams he’d heard over the phone.
Within twelve minutes of leaving home he was screeching into his parents’ road.
What greeted him shook him. It was mayhem.
The street was awash with police officers, and emergency vehicles of all descriptions lined the road, their whirling blue strobes dancing around, lighting the area as if it was a disco. Blue and white crime scene tape was everywhere — sealing off the approach to his mother and father’s semi and keeping neighbours back.
His stomach turned over; he knew this was the scene of a major incident.
He slewed his car into the kerb and leapt from it, leaving the driver’s door open as he launched into a sprint. He could see his parents’ house less than fifty yards away but he couldn’t get anywhere near for abandoned vehicles. A young uniformed officer was about to head him off as he dipped beneath a strand of waving incident tape. He moved aside as Hunter flashed his warrant card and raced past.
Slackening his pace, as he neared the drive, he swore he had never seen as much activity; uniformed cops, plain clothed detectives and Scenes of Crime officers were swarming all around the front of the house. Despite attending so many crime scenes this seemed so surreal; this was his old home; he had moved here when he had been twelve years old and had spent his teenage years growing up in its warm and loving environment. And this was the street where he had met Polly, who had lived four doors away and whom he had fallen madly in love with as his first girlfriend. It was here where he had first heard the news that she had been found murdered. Finally it was this place where he had made his most life-changing decision — telling his parents that he didn’t want to take up his place at university to study fine art — instead, he wanted to be a cop and catch his girlfriend’s killer.
A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then.
He focussed his gaze as he entered the top of the drive. Much of the activity was centred at the front lounge window, which had a huge gaping hole in the double-glazing with just a few fragments of glass jutting from the frame. Two forensic officers were draping a plastic sheet over something half-inside, half-outside the window and as he rushed into the drive Hunter realised what it was. From the light coming through the gap inside his parent’s house he could clearly make out the naked shape of a gaunt lanky man through the semi-opaque sheet. This is what his mother had been in such a state over.
On the front lawn the skeletal frame of a forensic tent was in the process of being erected by SOCO; he recognised Duncan Wroe.
He spotted his boss emerging from the front door. In the hallway, behind him, stood the red-headed Scottish DCI he had spoken with ten days ago; he tried to recollect her name but suddenly his brain was mush.
“Hunter!” shouted Michael Robshaw.
Hunter’s pace had dropped to a fast-walk as he made towards them.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “Who on earth’s this?” he shouted pointing towards the cadaver. “Where are my mum and dad? Are they hurt?” He machine-gunned the questions one after another in quick succession.
Detective Superintendent Robshaw held up a hand as DCI Dawn Leggate stepped over the threshold to join him.
Hunter pointed his finger towards her. “Why’s DCI Leggate here?” He’d recalled her name. “What’s she got to do with this?”
“Whoa just a minute Hunter, calm down, both your parents are okay. Shook up — but neither of them are hurt. As we speak they’re on their way to the Victim Interview Suite at Maltby police station. The FME is on route as well to check them over.”