The Hunted: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked

Just as she stood up to wash up the cup and plate, the back door burst open and in stormed Paris. Usually, Doris would greet her, offering lunch or a drink, but not today. Today, she wanted nothing more than to be alone and pretend she’d never had a family.

‘All right, Muvver?’ she said, as she plonked an oversized bag on the table. ‘I’ve got a few bits that need to be hand-washed. Put the kettle on. I’m fucking parched.’

Doris ignored her and continued with the washing up.

Paris rifled through her Louis Vuitton tote bag looking for her phone, still annoyed that Travis hadn’t returned her calls. In among the make-up, hairbrushes, and hairspray, she finally felt the rhinestone-covered phone case and retrieved it from her bag, only to find the battery had died. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she cursed and dived in again to find the charger. After plugging it in, she returned to her seat and looked over at her mother. ‘Did ya make the tea?’

Doris untied her pinafore and turned to face her daughter. ‘No, Paris, I didn’t. If you want a cup, then make it yourself.’

Paris’s heavily made-up face produced a frown that even the Botox couldn’t freeze. ‘What the fuck’s up with you?’

‘I’ve had your brother in here demanding I move out for a while, I’ve had your stinking father take my last tenner from my purse yesterday, and now you, expecting your washing done and tea made. Well, you can all go and bugger off. I’m sick of all of you.’

Her caustic words made Paris gasp. She’d never heard her mother speak with such hostility to her, nor wear that look of spiteful anger. It just wasn’t in her nature.

Doris glared with tight lips, feeling her blood boiling. Her once sweet little girl was now nothing but a tart. Everything about her was fake, with her ever-changing bleached hair extensions, her oversized lips, and the thick black eyelash extensions, all of which made her look like a transvestite ready for a Las Vegas show. The skintight dress and fake tan would, Doris thought, be fine for the nightclub, but it was midday. Her look was more suitable for streetwalking around King’s Cross, where she would probably make a fortune selling her arse. In fact, Doris wondered if the figure-hugging dress did Paris any favours, particularly as it was bright green and the lumps and bumps made her look like a caterpillar. Still, what did she know about fashion? On balance, the boys seemed to go for her, and she wasn’t short of a fella. Perhaps it was the prodigious fake tits, mused Doris, that distracted anyone from thinking that she looked like a pig in lipstick.

Paris ignored the outburst and asked, ‘Who wanted you to leave?’

Doris gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Harry did.’

Paris guessed there was trouble. There was no way Harry would want their mother out of the house unless something bad was about to happen. Before she’d a chance to say another word, her phone sprang into action, bleeping with a string of messages. Leaping from her chair, she snatched her mobile, and with hands shaking from a hangover, she scrolled down the long list of messages and swallowed hard. She hastily dialled Harry’s number and waited for him to answer, anxiously tapping her foot.

‘Harry, what the fuck’s going on? Muvver’s got the raving hump, and I’ve had thirty missed calls.’

Harry told her he was on his way back and would pick her up in five minutes to take her to their seaside flat.

Now uneasy, Paris waited quietly in the kitchen. It was the panic in her brother’s voice that troubled her. Her brothers were never nervous: they were always self-assured, as if nothing ever fazed them. She was proud to be their little sister. It gave her a reputation and allowed her into places where drinks would be bought for her. She was spoiled, and she knew it. With a whinge, a whine, and a sulky pout, she would get the latest bag, shoes, or even a car.

Annoyed, she called him back.

‘Harry, why ’ave I got to go to the flat, for fuck’s sake? Travis ’as promised me a long weekend in some foreign country. He reckons it’s a surprise. Harry? Harry?’ She looked at the phone and realized Harry had ended the call.

‘Muvver, what’s going on? I’ve got Harry telling me he’s on his way, but now he’s put the poxy phone down, and you ain’t even gonna make me a brew!’

Doris stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall and sighed; her daughter was such a petulant, rude, and insensitive little cow. She hadn’t even looked up to acknowledge her mother; she merely applied a layer of lip gloss.

‘Paris, you can wait for Harry outside.’

With her lip gloss in one hand and a small round mirror in the other, Paris froze and slowly flicked her eyes to see her mother looking deadly serious.

‘You what?’

‘I said you can wait outside for your brother and also take that washing with you. I’ll not be your skivvy, ever again. And that goes for your brothers as well. Are we clear?’ Each word was precise.

Paris frowned. ‘What’s wrong with you? I mean, ’ave ya started the menopause or something?’

Doris shook her head and walked away, mumbling under her breath, ‘I started it years ago.’

Ignoring her mother, Paris began adding another layer of lip gloss. Suddenly, Harry came flying into the kitchen as if he had a rocket up his arse. ‘Right, where’s Muvver? I need her to come with me. You! Get ya gear. We have to go.’

He watched Paris still fussing over herself. Clearly frustrated, he once again shouted at his mother.

‘Muvver! Come here! You have to leave wiv me, right now.’

Paris suddenly jumped up from her seat. ‘What’s going on, Harry?’

‘Nothing. Just get yaself into gear and wait in the car.’

He looked down the hallway. ‘Muvver, will you hurry up!’

There was silence. Beads of sweat were now running down his nose and he hastily pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over his wet face. ‘Muvver!’ he screamed again.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he growled, as he marched along the hallway.

Doris casually appeared from the living room, looking right through Harry as if he wasn’t even there. She’d been about to go upstairs when that irritating son of hers had started up again.

‘Muvver, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you hear me? I ain’t messing about. You have to come with me.’

Unexpectedly, Doris stopped, turned, and glared, with contempt smeared across her face.

‘Harry, take your precious sister and get out of my house. And, listen well! Before you upset my neighbours with your bellowing, close your big mouth, turn on your heels, and just go. I’m not going with you, so please leave, before …’ She sighed. ‘Oh, never mind. Just get out!’

Harry was looking at a stranger: this wasn’t his mother. There was nothing he could do except physically throw her over his shoulder, and he wasn’t about to do that.

Doris was about to shout, ‘And don’t slam the door’, but it was too late. The back door banged shut, and she was left with a ringing sound in her ears and a tightening in her chest.

Harry almost pushed Paris with all her bags into his Mercedes. ‘Hurry up, Paris. We need to get out of ’ere.’

With her brother panicking the way he was, and almost manhandling her, Paris sensed this situation was more serious than she’d previously thought. Usually, she would have been gobbing off, but, for the first time in her life, she remained quiet and allowed Harry to get himself settled and on the road before she opened her mouth. He didn’t pull away gently either; he left rubber on the tarmac. Never would Harry drive like that, not in his precious top-of-the-range car.

‘Harry, what’s happened?’ She kept her voice low-key.

‘Well, princess, I hate to tell ya, babe, but your fella won’t be taking you away for the weekend. He’s dead.’

After being forcibly pushed into the back, Paris was leaning forward, gripping the corners of the two front seats. ‘What?’

Her voice was so loud, it seemed to vibrate in his ear.

‘Sit back and get ya seatbelt on.’

In a sudden daze, Paris sat back and fastened the belt. ‘What happened? Who the hell killed him?’

‘Did I say anyone killed him?’ He knew that question was unfair. This mess wasn’t his little sister’s fault.

‘Well, bruv, we wouldn’t be flying up fucking Wrotham Hill like Lewis Hamilton if he died of natural causes, would we?’

He looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Sis, you don’t seem upset. I thought you liked Travis?’

She squirmed in her seat. ‘Well, yeah, ’course I did, but I weren’t gonna marry him or have his babies. He was all right, sweet, really … anyway, what’s ’appened?’

‘He was working for me, an inside job, but the silly bastard got sussed out and …’ He paused, waiting for a reaction.

‘So I ain’t going away this weekend then? Fuck it. I was looking forward to that.’

Harry flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror again. ‘You’re a heartless cow.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I was taught by the best, Harry.’

The thought circled in his mind: she wasn’t wrong. They had pressured her when she was a kid not to show weakness and indoctrinated her in the belief that only wimps cry, and everyone is out for themselves.

He remembered when she was only thirteen, and all the girls in her class were invited to a party except her. She’d fallen out with this young girl called Amberley Fitzgerald. He shuddered when he thought about it; perhaps, on that occasion, his family had gone too far.

Amberley had made it quite clear that she wouldn’t be friends with Paris because Paris had taken her boyfriend away. Amberley lived in a big house in Wilderness Avenue in Chislehurst. Her parents were bankers, and so she always had the latest clothes that outshone any other girl, plus she had a pretty face with long dark curly hair. She had it all. All the girls wanted to be friends with her, and so when they went against his sister, it was a racing certainty that all hell would break loose, no matter what.

When Paris came home in tears and told them that she’d been victimized and bullied, Harry and Vinnie went mental. They told her to stop crying and stand up for herself; no one must ever bully her, and, more to the point, get away with it. There was no such thing as having a friend; everyone has their own agenda in life. The only people in the world you could depend on were family. ‘Tears are for weaklings,’ Harry told her. In response, she wiped her cheeks with a tissue.

The very next day, outside the school grounds, backed by her brothers, Paris stood ready for the fight of her life. Her fingers loaded with cheap rings, she launched an attack the minute Amberley appeared. With no sense of control, Paris punched the girl relentlessly, gruesomely tearing shreds from the girl’s face. Harry and Vinnie watched with pride as their little sister showed her worth, rucking as violently as any lad. The fight was eventually broken up by the head teacher, who was given a fierce verbal attack by Harry. All the way home they patted her back, showering her with praise.

Harry remembered his father’s words when they arrived home: ‘Now then, you start showing people who’s the fucking boss. That little larruping will give a warning to all those silly little girls that no one messes with a Harman.’

* * *

In the rear-view mirror Harry witnessed the same expression as the day she’d sniffed back those tears and fallen into a world of callousness. Since then, she hadn’t changed; she still had that sneering look to this day. Nothing ever fazed her. It was as if he and their father had ripped out her soul and left a void. Still, he loved his sister; she was loyal to them, regardless.

‘So, tell me, Harry, what’s going on? You look like you’re shitting a brick.’

‘Travis was tortured, the poor bastard …’ He swallowed hard as he recalled the images of Travis on that chair with his eye scooped out and with his flesh ripped from his cheek; he could only guess it had been done with a claw hammer. ‘I need to get you away, princess, because the bastards that killed Travis will be coming for us.’

Paris gasped, ‘Oh my God, Harry. It’s the Regans!’ Her mouth remained open, digesting his silent acknowledgement. ‘Are you fucking nuts? Seriously? Why would you get involved? This ain’t our vendetta.’ She paused, waiting for an answer, but then she noticed in the mirror her brother’s shifty eyes and knew that he hadn’t done it for the family honour.

It was always about the money with her family. Planning and scheming to ruin the Regan family was a continual source of conversation, from father to sons, like some hereditary disease.

His silence irritated her. ‘I just hope it was worth it, Harry, because the Regans are legendary. And you may have kept me out of the business, but I ain’t blind or deaf. And our flaming uncle and our ol’ man should have cut their losses years ago.’ She huffed. ‘What I don’t get is, if they have killed Travis, why are they coming for us, now they’ve had their pound of flesh?’

With a sharp intake of breath, Harry shook his head. ‘All right! Paris, leave it, will you? Just let me think!’

The realization hit Paris like a horse’s hoof in the teeth. ‘Leave it, Harry? How can I? I’m now mixed up in it. I just don’t get why they’re after us now though, if they’ve already killed Travis …’ Her jaw tightened. ‘Harry, what else have you done?’

With her words ringing in his ears, he snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake, Paris, Vinnie has murdered Ted Stafford’s dog and thrown its butchered body back in the garden. Now shut up and let me think.’

‘Why would he do that?’ she softened her voice.

‘Because, Paris, he has shit for brains, he’s taken too many drugs, and he thought that stupid stunt would have our ol’ man singing his praises.’

They drove in silence for twenty minutes, both contemplating the reality of the situation.

For a moment, Paris felt sorry for her brother. They were close, and she looked up to him; yet, as much as she acted the needy little sister, she wasn’t as oblivious to what her family’s firm did as she made out. The years of brainwashing and inciting hatred towards the Regans hadn’t worked on her, but, obviously, it had done the trick on Harry. Time would tell if the family would have their backs, now the shit had hit the fan. Or would they be hung out to dry?

Harry flicked his narrow eyes back to the mirror. ‘I’m sorry, Paris, but I promise you this much. I will get it sorted out. But, for the moment, we need to get down to the coast. I’ve left a message for Farver to fetch Muvver and bring her down an’ all. I dunno what’s got into the dopey cow, walking around like a fart in a trance. Was it me or did you notice her behaving strangely?’

‘Yeah, she told me to take me washing and practically told me to fuck off. Menopause, I suspect. So what’s gonna ’appen now? I can’t stay in that poxy flat. I’ll get cabin fever.’

Harry didn’t answer, his mind now back on the photos of Travis. He took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves.

Chapter 4

On the way to Gatwick Airport, Jackie fumed. Who the fuck did Mike think he was, demanding that she go to Spain? She gritted her teeth and put her foot down, using the horn at the motorist veering in front of her. Why should she do as he said? He had no right. It wasn’t as if he really cared about her. Maybe he wanted to move someone else in for a while? Could it even be his perfect ex?

Jackie went over in her head the number of times he’d looked her up and down with that expression of despair. Or perhaps it was disgust? She knew deep down she would always be compared to that woman who had fucked off and abandoned him. She would always be second best. Well, not anymore. She had her own plan. Fuck you, Mike Regan.

Ignoring the turning to Gatwick, she carried on along the M25. Ricky moaned. He needed the toilet, and in a flash, she told him to shut his mouth, which he promptly did. He didn’t want another slap from her. She pulled down the sun visor and gawped in the mirror at her sore red skin and bruised face. Her anger climbed a pitch. You just wait and see, Mike. I’ll have the last fucking laugh.

‘Sit still, ya little shit!’ she hollered, as she spotted Ricky squirming.

‘Mummy, I need to pee.’

‘Hold it in. You ain’t a baby,’ she snapped at him. Her sudden plan made her jittery. It was now or never, and Mike had just given her the final shove to put her future dream into action.

Ricky tried hard not to pee, but the rush out of the door this morning hadn’t allowed for a trip to the toilet, and now he was frightened. Beads of sweat gathered along his hairline, as he struggled not to wet himself. Then, he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and along with the torrent of wee, came a stream of tears. His mother would slap him. At least he was safe until she stopped the car. She was concentrating on the road ahead and didn’t hear the tinkling sound. A small pool gathered in the hollows of the leather seat, and slowly, not making too much noise, he removed his tracksuit top to mop up the mess. Keeping one eye on his mother, he quickly slid the top under the front seat, praying that his trousers would dry out soon.

As young as he was, little Ricky was no idiot. He had his mother sussed, and he knew that how she treated him wasn’t right. He loved his grandparents and Sacha, and adored his father, but he despised his mother. At six years old, he was fully aware of the spite she held for him. With an observant eye, he realized that they were now not off to Spain because he knew the drill: the parking, the airport customs procedures, the flight, and then the drive to the villa. They were on the motorway, passing signs and areas that he didn’t recognize and heading in the opposite direction from Kent. Then he spotted the sign for the M11; he had no idea what that meant.

* * *

Mike poured Staffie another drink. He could see that the vile act carried out on Staffie’s dog was ripping him in half. ‘Listen, Staff. Do yaself a favour and get the dog outta your ’ead. I know you loved him, but you need to get yaself together, so that we can seek justified retribution.’

Staffie looked up at the huge man and knew he was talking sense. Besides, Mike was the one man he wouldn’t argue with for two reasons: he was the hardest guy he knew, and he also respected him.

‘You will ’ave your chance to avenge ya dog’s death, but we need to round up this little Harman crew before they cause more mayhem. Got it?’

Staffie nodded and gave a smile that bared his uneven teeth, giving him a childish, goofy appearance. Many a fool regarded Staffie as being a bit simple, just because of his expression, and many regretted it. As much as he looked like a bulldog himself, he had a charm that was unmatchable.

‘Good lad,’ said Mike, as he patted Staffie on the shoulder. ‘Right, I want you all to find out as much as you can. I’m gonna pay Izzy Ezra the Jew a visit. That man knows everyone and everything. Besides all that, the bloke needs to know who’s been poking their nose into his little arrangement.’

Eric took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ya ain’t going alone are ya, Mikey?’

With a cocky wink, Mike replied, ‘Izzy is a ruthless Jew, but, bruv, he has no grief with me. However, Harry Harman, that little grass, will most certainly be in his bad books. Izzy set up our arms racket with the Lanigans. All he asked for was a cut in return, along with no fuck-ups. But now, he’ll see the Harmans as trying to ruin his reputation. That man won’t sit back and take it, not all the while he has a skullcap to pray with.’

Within an hour, Mike was parked up behind the old jeweller’s place just off the Old Kent Road, well away from Izzy’s manor in Tottenham. The shop was just a front; the main business was conducted at the rear of the building. Mike stepped out of his car. He made sure his jacket covered the belt that held his handgun and knocked three times at the back door. He paused and knocked another two times, following the code that Izzy insisted upon.

Slowly, the door opened, and there, taking up the doorframe, was Quasimodo, whose real name was Norman. He acquired his nickname due to his size and an ugly, twisted face that only a blind grandmother could love.

‘All right, Quasi?’

There was no response, apart from a flick of his head to indicate that Mike could go in.

Passing the stacked tatty boxes and a rancid toilet without a door, Mike grinned to himself. He never failed to be amazed that after all the shit and smell from the entrance, there could be such a huge transformation. They went through the secure heavy metal door that led into Izzy’s so-called office. Row upon row of books, housed on highly polished mahogany shelves, surrounded an enormous solid wood antique desk. But the central feature was a Persian rug. Anyone who entered had to remove their shoes before stepping onto it. Mike followed the rule, and with one eye on Izzy, he flicked off his footwear and walked towards the desk. Izzy hadn’t even looked up; he was sitting on a high-backed mahogany chair and staring at a piece of jewellery through an eyepiece. Still ignoring him, he waved his hand for Mike to take a seat.

‘Seventeenth century, this piece. The scag heads around these parts have no idea of the value of what they steal for me.’

He removed the eyepiece from his face and gently placed it on the desk along with the brooch. Clasping his hands together, he leaned back. ‘I was wondering when you were going to visit me. Let me see. It’s been three days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes since the establishment turned over your lock-up.’ His voice sounded relaxed; Mike knew, though, that it was just the calm before the storm.

‘Yes, Izzy, and it’s been forty-eight hours since I’ve discovered the fucking culprit who grassed me.’

Izzy, a middle-aged man with piercing black eyes and thick white hair, in the classic slicked-back style to match his long beard, slowly nodded. ‘You know, Mike, people swear when they have no other word to use. Anyway, I’m assuming you wanted to establish the facts before you showed up at my door?’

Mike sat as cool as a cucumber, not even blinking, his eyes firmly fixed on Izzy’s face, although he knew only too well that Izzy was more than capable of pulling out a shooter and blowing him through the walls into the greengrocer’s next door.

‘No, Izzy, I came because I wanted to pick your brains, not ’cos I owe you or anyone an explanation. You had a business deal with me. Five grand to pair me up with a buyer for my guns, that’s all the deal was. You got your money, and I got the name of the buyers. That, Izzy, is where our business was concluded.’

Izzy slapped his hands on the desk and stood up. Mike looked him over. He was dressed in a suit, complete with waistcoat and collarless shirt. A gold watch hung from his waistcoat pocket and three heavy gold chains swung from his neck. A distorted smirk showed his gold back teeth as he glared at Mike.

‘You, Mike, are forgetting a very important fact. I have a reputation and that means more to me than money.’

Mike laughed out loud. ‘Never, Izzy. I don’t believe it.’

‘You and everybody else think I’m all about money, but you’re wrong. My family and my honour mean far more. So, listen to me.’ He walked around the desk and lowered himself to sit on the corner as he leaned close to Mike’s face. ‘You give me the names of the grasses, and I’ll make sure they don’t see their next bowl of porridge. The Lanigans want more than ammunition. That’s just small fry. I’m in negotiations for bigger wares, and that, dear boy, is why you need to keep me well and truly in the loop. Now, I want names!’

Mike shook his head. ‘Nah, Izzy. Let me deal with it because it’s just got fucking personal. The little firm that grassed me up also killed Staffie’s dog. I assume that was a warning.’

Izzy rose from the desk and pulled a cigar from his top pocket and lit the end, puffing away with his back to Mike. ‘A dog, you say? And a warning? A warning for what?’

Mike realized it sounded stupid, but, nevertheless, like Izzy’s honour, it meant a lot to him. But it wasn’t so much about the dog – that was bad enough – it was the upset it had caused his friend.