Huntress

  Huntress

  A.E. Radley

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknolwedgements

  1. Missing

  2. Questions

  3. Investigation

  4. Go, Go, Go!

  5. Mi5

  6. A Plan

  7. The Hunter

  8. First Mistake

  9. Meeting The Parents

  10. First Night

  11. First Clue

  12. Master Criminals

  13. On The Trail

  14. Beryl

  15. A Thread

  16. Briefing

  17. Edinburgh

  18. Cover Up

  19. Bert Junior

  20. Two Steps Behind

  21. Suspicion

  22. First Contact

  23. Run

  24. Upping The Pressure

  25. Know Your Enemy

  26. On The Move

  27. Waiting

  28. Gotcha

  29. So Close

  30. All Aboard

  31. The Slowest Getaway Ever

  32. How Does She Do It?

  33. Out Of The Woods

  34. Camping With Dummies

  35. Travel Scrabble

  36. Back Together

  37. Coming Together

  38. End Game

  39. The Next Step

  About the Author

  Also by A.E. Radley

  Also by A.E. Radley

  Available Now from Heartsome

  Coming Soon from Heartsome

  Published by Heartsome Publishing

  Staffordshire

  United Kingdom

  www.heartsomebooks.com

  Also available in paperback.

  ISBN: 9781999702908

  First Heartsome edition: June 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to action persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  A.E. Radley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright © 2017 A.E. Radley

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Dedication

  When I was growing up my best friend was obsessed with snooker. His parents bought him a second-hand snooker table and put it in the garage.

  The problem with the second-hand table was that it had been damaged and one of its legs had been repaired. But it had been repaired badly and was a good inch shorter than the other three legs.

  A book was wedged under the damaged leg and the table was… almost level.

  My friend would spend all his spare time in the garage. This meant that if I wanted to spend any time with him, I had to learn to play snooker. So, I did.

  One day we were playing and I was doing quite well. Which was a surprise because my friend ended up being an award-winning snooker champion and I, clearly, didn’t.

  In my cocky youth I offered a bet. If I potted the black, I’d get his grandfather tiger marble. If I missed, then I would have to give him my prized galaxy smasher. For the non-marble aficionado this probably doesn’t sound as high stakes as it actually was.

  I lined up my shot. Took a deep breath. And struck the cue ball. It trundled along and clipped the black. The black rolled towards the corner pocket and… stopped a hairs width away from the pocket.

  My friend smiled as he took my galaxy smasher. I complained bitterly that it should have gone in. I’d been robbed. He agreed.

  “It would have gone in if that wasn’t the pocket over the dodgy leg. The table isn’t quite flush. I need a thicker book,” he explained.

  So. Gary, here it is. A thicker book.

  Acknolwedgements

  I think I struggle more with the acknowledgements page than I do with the actual book.

  The pressure is immense, what if I forget someone? What order do I list people? And, critically, does anyone actually read the acknowledgements page?

  On the off chance that they do, here it is.

  I must thank my fantastic editors, Jessica Hatch and Cheri Fuller. Between them they have taken a bumbling mess of words and made a book. And they both made the process a pleasure rather than a chore. That’s what good editors are all about, so, thank you both.

  Thank you to my wonderful wife, Emma. Who listened to me prattle on about CCTV, MI5, being on the run, and narrowboats. Without Emma, there would be no book.

  Finally, thank you. Yes, you. I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Chapter One

  Missing

  Amy let out a sigh and leaned back heavily on the plastic chair of the break room. She looked at the two male police officers in front of her and shook her head in despair.

  “She might be dead, you know,” she told them.

  The older officer smirked and looked away. Probably to prevent himself from saying anything that would upset her further. Since they had arrived, both had been cocky to say the least. They had spoken down to her; mansplaining the rules on exactly when and how to declare someone as missing. The older guy had stood by the door, presumably eager to get away as soon as possible. He leaned against the wall, his thumbs hooked onto his utility belt as he left most of the conversation to his younger colleague, Officer Raj Patel.

  “I think you are jumping to conclusions based on very little evidence,” Raj told her in a soft tone that made Amy want to wring his neck.

  “Why do I pay my taxes?” Amy asked.

  “Good one, never heard that before,” the older guy said with a sarcastic laugh.

  Raj turned around and gave him a look. He turned back to Amy and tried to look reassuring. He obviously hadn’t had a lot of practice. Amy wondered if she should suggest he request further compassion training. Or any.

  “Look,” Raj said, “I get that you’re worried about your friend.”

  “She’s not my friend,” Amy pointed out. For the third time. “She’s just a customer.”

  “Do you monitor all of your customers so closely?” the older officer asked, a smirk firmly planted on his face.

  Amy turned to look up at him. “She comes here to the motorway services every day, every single weekday morning. She arrives at six-thirty, has breakfast, we talk, and she leaves by ten to seven. She’s been doing that every day for the last ten months. Until three days ago, when she didn’t show up. Those specific details about your day, you kinda remember.”

  “Maybe she got a new job? Or she’s sick of the swill you call coffee?” He chuckled at his own joke.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Amy smiled sweetly.

  “David Rowe.”

  “Look, Dave,” she drawled his name, ignoring his wince. “I don’t expect you to understand, but some people interact with other people in a cordial and sociable manner, and they make these things called friends—”

  “Thank you, Miss Hewitt,” Raj interrupted in an obvious attempt to keep the peace.

  “And there is nothing wrong with my coffee,” Amy added.

  “Tell that to my tongue,” David said.

  “No, thanks, you’re not my type.” She returned his smirk with one of her own.

  “Oh, I see.” David pushed away from the wall, suddenly more interested in the case. “You were sweet on her.”

  “Sweet on her?” Amy let out a laugh. “Who even says that anymore?”

  David pulled a
small notebook out of his pocket and detached the pen. He looked over the top of the notepad at her as he very slowly flipped through the pages, deliberately wasting time. Amy watched him, fighting the urge to roll her eyes at his pathetic behaviour.

  “So, how long had you been in a relationship with her?” David asked.

  Amy glared at him. She bit the inside of her mouth to prevent the reply that was on the tip of her tongue from being let loose. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath. “I wasn’t in a relationship with her.”

  “But you wanted to be?”

  “No,” Amy defended herself. “We were just friendly.”

  “Friendly.” David nodded his head, a sarcastic smile on his lips. “So, can you tell us the full name of this friend?”

  “You know I can’t,” Amy sighed. She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him. He was clearly trying to antagonise her, and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

  “Date of birth? Place of work? Home address? Telephone number?” David listed in quick succession.

  Amy looked at him for a few more seconds before turning her attention to Raj. “So, you’re not going to help me?”

  Raj sat back in his chair and looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, there isn’t a lot we can do. This is a busy motorway service station, people come and people go. This... Carla—”

  “Cara,” Amy corrected.

  “Sorry, Cara, she may have moved away from the area. Got a new job, like Officer Rowe suggested. There’s no evidence that there has been a crime committed. Just that someone changed their pattern, which isn’t against the law, Miss Hewitt.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Amy shook her head and stood up. She pushed the plastic chair back under the table and picked up her apron from the hook on the wall. She hooped the apron over her head and started to tie it around her.

  “What’s ridiculous is that we’re not giving you a caution for wasting police time,” David told her.

  “You’re banned,” Amy told him sternly.

  “What?” he looked baffled.

  “Banned. You.” Amy pointed her finger at him. She walked around the table and headed towards the door. “I’m not serving you coffee until you fix your attitude.”

  He stared at her. “You can’t do that.”

  “I can. I just did. And you called my coffee swill, so presumably you’ll be glad to not have to drink it anymore. Banned.”

  She opened the door and stormed into the corridor without a look back. She angrily strode through the staff-only areas of the motorway service station. She was thankful that she was away from the general public and able to have some small respite from the crowds. She needed some time alone to process what was happening. The police clearly didn’t think it was an important matter, but it was. A woman was missing.

  Amy knew that Cara would have told her if she wouldn’t be coming back. She had even said that she would see her on Monday morning, as she always did on Fridays. Nothing about her last visit indicated in any way that it would be her last. Something must have happened to her. Women like her didn’t just vanish into nowhere. Cara was beautiful in an exotic way that Amy had just read about in books. People like that didn’t just disappear.

  Amy sighed. She’d not wanted to give any indication that she had a crush on Cara. She knew that doing so would give the police something to laugh about, and ensure they didn’t take her seriously. She hadn’t been able to keep that particular piece of information to herself. She wondered how obvious her feelings were for David to have caught on so quickly.

  Despite her crush, nothing had ever happened. Every morning she would anxiously await Cara’s arrival. The tall Spanish woman would stroll into the services, hair and outfit perfect despite the early hour. She would approach Tom’s Café in the corner of the services where Amy would be standing behind the counter, smiling and hoping her hair was behaving for once.

  Cara would order breakfast. Everything was precise. Muesli on Mondays and Wednesdays, wholemeal toast on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and a chocolate croissant on Fridays. She always sat at the same table as she waited for Amy to bring the order. When Amy brought the food, Cara would invite her to sit down. They’d talk about nothing in particular, never anything personal. Amy couldn’t be sure, but it always seemed like Cara was flirting with her. At least Amy hoped she was. She was certainly flirting with Cara. Or doing her best to.

  Cara stayed for twenty minutes and then left, promising to see Amy the next day or wishing her a pleasant weekend. Amy would go weak at the knees as she watched the well-heeled woman walk out of the services. It was the highlight of her every morning.

  Until one day she vanished without a trace. Monday had been a grey and miserable day, and Amy had been looking forward to seeing Cara. She’d practiced her welcoming greeting a few times. She had a witty comment all lined up and ready to go. Despite seeing the woman frequently, Amy often found herself tongue-tied in the moment she actually arrived. Which was bizarre because usually Amy could talk to anyone about anything. There was something about Cara that just prevented Amy’s brain from working correctly.

  As she practiced her supposedly casual greeting, she’d watched the minutes trickle by. Though Cara was a stickler for timing and details, she had been late before. But never by more than a couple of minutes. By seven o’clock Amy was ready to call the police, the army, every hospital in the area.

  After checking details of all road accidents within a fifty-mile radius and finding nothing that matched Cara’s description, Amy told herself that maybe she was sick. After ten months of the same schedule, it had to happen eventually. The rest of her Monday shift had gone by slowly and painfully. The only bright spot was that she had convinced herself that Cara would be back on Tuesday.

  Except she wasn’t.

  Nor on Wednesday.

  At nine o’clock on Wednesday, Amy called the local police and informed them that she wanted to declare a person missing. By midday the two clowns had arrived and the ten-minute meeting had been the least productive of her life. She vowed to never bother calling the police for anything ever again.

  While Raj had attempted to be polite, his main aim of simply appeasing her was thick in the air. He clearly didn’t believe Cara was genuinely missing. If Amy hadn’t corrected him, he’d be out looking for someone called Carla. If he even bothered to look for anyone at all.

  At least Raj pretended to be interested. David hadn’t even bothered, boredom coming from him in waves. And he’d insulted her coffee. Amy made a mental note to find his photograph on the local police website and print it out and stick it on the wall to inform her colleagues that he was banned.

  She rounded the last corner and stopped in front of the swinging double doors that separated the staff area and the busy motorway service station. She looked through the round glass window and watched the crowds of people. Every kind of person could be found at the services, and Amy watched as they all came together in one large crowd. Nothing connecting them except the desire to rest following a long journey.

  Despite the sight of over a hundred people, Amy couldn’t help but think that one essential person was missing.

  “Screw the police,” she mumbled to herself. “I’ll solve the damn case myself.”

  Chapter Two

  Questions

  Amy slammed the front door closed, and the house shook in response.

  “Amy? Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me, Mum, who else lives here?” Amy walked into the living room. She stood in front of the sofa and shook her shoulders until her rucksack fell from them onto the cushions below.

  “How was work?”

  Amy didn’t know why she asked; it was always the same answer. It was clear from her tone that she was itching to say something about Amy’s job. Ever since the discussion three months ago, the day after her twenty-fifth birthday, there had been an atmosphere. Julie Hewitt worked part time as the financial director to a small local company. She’d found h
er niche and she’d settled into it, and was anxious for Amy to do the same.

  Not that Amy could blame her. Amy knew that her mum wanted the best for her. She worried, maybe a little more than the average mum did. Maybe because Amy gave her good reason to with her lack of drive and ambition.

  “Work was horrid.” Amy flopped down on the sofa next to her overstuffed rucksack. “The police are useless.”

  Her mum looked at her in surprise. “The police? Why were the police there?”

  Amy blew out a sigh. She didn’t want to get into it. Not now when everything was so raw. “I told you, Mum. Cara, remember?”

  “Oh. So, you called the police?” The tone said it all. She didn’t approve.

  It was just the two of them living in the house, and neither liked conflict. Most of the time everything was rosy in the Hewitt household. They often got on well, Amy choosing to spend more time with her mum than her friends. But occasionally they had their differences. They avoided outright disagreements, neither wanting to shake the boat and ruin the close friendship they had. Instead of coming out and saying something, tones were frequently used to express points of view.

  “Yeah, shouldn’t have bothered though.” Amy closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the sofa. She didn’t have the energy for another discussion about her prospects, about when she was going to leave her job at Tom’s Café. It had only been two years since Amy had graduated. Top of her class with a First-Class Honours degree in Sociology. It had been amazing. Until she had to figure out exactly what she wanted to do with her shiny certificate and her thirty-thousand pounds’ worth of debt.

  While generally supportive, her mum had made no secret of her disappointment that Amy continued to work the supposedly temporary job she’d had to pay her way through uni. Comments were often dropped about her school friends, who had almost all moved away from home. Most had got high-flying jobs in big cities around the UK, and some even overseas. But Amy had stayed home. Right at home. In the house she had grown up in.