Deadly Diversion

David Barry

Description

Weston and Turner, novice private detectives, are plunged into a nightmare world of murder when they are hired by a young millionairess to solve the triple murder of her family, a crime the police failed to solve more than eleven years ago. As they delve deeper into the case, they soon discover a hired assassin is always one step ahead of them and someone will do anything to stop them learning the terrible truth behind the crime, even if it means bumping off their witnesses. Not only does family man Freddie have to risk his life on behalf of their client, his personal problems are compounded by threats to his daughter's safety. And when he discovers the hired gunman's boss is the mysterious Eclipse, his investigations take him on a mad dash to Poland, and he becomes involved in a race against time to prevent another murder, one for which he is willing to risk everything, even his own life.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 10 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783335794
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
A Deadly Diversion
David Barry



Publisher Information
A Deadly Diversion - published in 2014 by
Acorn Books
www.acornbooks.co.uk
Converted and distributed by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2014 David Barry
The right of David Barry to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Dedication
For Emma and Morgan with love



Quote
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
William Shakespeare Sonnet 35



Prologue
Friday 19 July 2002
He had no illusions about the way he looked, knowing how he blended into the background - a featureless person no one would remember, and that was useful in this line of work. Which was why he felt safe staying in the same hotel as the target, secure in the knowledge that people barely gave him a second glance. And his real identity had disappeared somewhere in the dismal past, dropped like a stone into a lake, and it was highly unlikely his false identity could be compromised.
He had followed them from just outside Guildford in Surrey. Not that he had to follow close behind them all the way from the south of England, as the electronic tracker on the target’s BMW gave a fairly precise location, allowing him to keep a safe distance.
He knew they were heading for Inverness, and it was unlikely they would attempt the six-hundred mile journey in one day. And he’d been right. Hence the stopover at a location not far from Carlisle at a five star hotel. Years ago it would have been way beyond his budget. But not anymore. Now he could afford life’s luxuries, and in any case the hotel needn’t come out of his commission and would be classed as expenses.
He sat in the dining room as far away from his target as possible. Even so, it was unnerving the way their son glanced in his direction every so often and studied him closely. Instinctively, his hand went to his neck. He had always had an inferiority complex about his protruding Adam’s apple, and now the boy kept staring at him as he ate his continental breakfast, watching the bobbing of his protrusion as he swallowed. The kid was only ten-years-old, and he should have known better than to stare like that. Not that it mattered. Because of the electronic tail, he could track them at a distance. Then, once he had them in a secluded spot...
Twenty minutes later, after settling his hotel bill, he sat in his van in the car park waiting for the family to leave. He watched from a distance as they got back into their silver BMW. The boy sat in the front passenger seat and his mother sat at the back. He gave them a ten minute start before following. His motorcycle leathers lay on the seat next to him, the helmet on the floor by the passenger seat, and the revolver was in the glove compartment. Although it was late July, it felt too hot, because he had wrongly assumed that this far north, especially in Scotland, it was always at least four or five degrees cooler than the south of England. But not now - not now he needed to wear stifling hot motorcycle leathers. At least he’d had the sense to wear a light T-shirt, grey and nondescript, drawing little attention to himself.
It was still many miles and hours until Inverness and he hoped they would stop off for some lunch or pull into a beauty spot to admire the scenery. That’s when he would do it. He couldn’t let them get as far as Inverness. It had to be somewhere fairly secluded; but there were many tourists around at this time of the year, and he couldn’t be sure there wouldn’t be any visitors who might witness the execution. Not that it mattered. All anyone would see was a motorcyclist in a black helmet, an unrecognisable figure who would vanish into nowhere. Even if there were no witnesses to the hit, he was well enough informed on police procedure, knowing forensics would soon identify the motorcycle tracks. But by then he would probably be back south of the border with the motorbike inside the van, with all the time in the world to get rid of it, along with the weapon.
By late morning, their BMW drove along the A82 west of Loch Lomond. He was only about five minutes behind them, and when they reached the village of Crianlarich, he saw they had stopped. He carried on driving and noticed they had parked outside a store, presumably to buy provisions for lunch. He carried on driving through the village and parked in a lay-by to wait. Ten minutes later their BMW past his van, but he didn’t follow. He guessed they would very soon find somewhere to enjoy their picnic lunch. Hopefully, somewhere remote.
They couldn’t have gone more than seven or eight miles when he picked up the tracker on his mobile, informing him they had turned west. He consulted his map and saw they had taken a B-road and were in the Glen Orchy area. About halfway to the area where they had turned off the main road, he saw there was a village called Tyndrum, so he used his BlackBerry to check it out on the internet, which seemed to take forever. But eventually he learnt there was an old lead mine outside the village, with a Forestry Commission warning that it could be a dangerous place to go walking. It seemed an ideal place to park the van.
It took him less than ten minutes to find a secluded spot where he could unload the motorbike quickly down the ramp. By now he was sweating profusely, and the leather motorcycle jacket felt uncomfortably clammy, so he left it unzipped as far down as his stomach, knowing the breeze would cool him as he sped to his destination to carry out the contract. As he lowered the helmet onto his head, a feeling of power swept over him - power and anticipation, like a matador stepping into the bullring.
He covered the distance from where he had parked the van to their picnic site in less than five minutes. As he came over the brow of a hill, he saw them sitting by a river, enjoying the tranquillity of the valley as they ate their sandwiches. The boy sat on the bank with his bare feet cooling off in the water. As they heard the roar of his engine, all three turned and looked up at him. The father stood up, his food spilling onto the ground, his body stiffening with fear, aware there was a price on his head.
The motorbike’s engine revved once before speeding down the incline towards them, their terrified images getting larger as he neared them in seconds, like the zoom on a telephoto lens. He saw the panicking father pushing his wife towards the car, and waving at his son to get away from the bank and into the passenger seat.
But they were too late. He skidded to a stop only a yard away from the father, took the gun from inside his leather jacket and, without a moment’s hesitation, shot him in the middle of the forehead, the bullet going clean through the man’s skull. A stream of blood from the back of his head spurted across the roof of the car. His wife opened her mouth to scream but the second bullet caught her in the mouth. In case she survived by some miracle, he put a third bullet through her head as she slid down the car, leaving a bloody trail along the bodywork.
He glanced towards the shocked boy. He had no intention of killing him. Not children. Never. It was a rule of his.
But knowing he had no time to waste, he kicked the stand of the bike, swung his leg over the seat, then hurriedly crouched beneath the back of the BMW. His hand felt for the tracker and tugged hard on the strong magnet attaching it to the car. He shoved the small black box into his pocket and got back on the bike. Then kicked the stand away, and was about to rev up and turn away from the scene but a glance at the boy stopped him accelerating right away. The kid was in a state of shock, frozen with fear, staring at him with uncomprehending eyes. Then he realised his jacket wasn’t zipped up, and his neck and chest were unshielded. Without thinking, he took his left hand off the handlebar accelerator and it flew to his throat, concealing this vulnerable area from the kid. He felt exposed, like he’d made a grave error.
So there was only one way to rectify this mistake. His decision was instant, because he was a professional and couldn’t leave anything to chance.
He put two bullets into the boy’s head. He regretted having to do it. But by staring at him during breakfast, the kid had signed his own death warrant.
Not only that, the boy had witnessed him retrieving the tracker and it wasn’t something he wanted the police to know about.
As he sped from the scene of carnage, he thought the boy’s death was unfortunate but necessary. Justifiable in the circumstances.
***
The youngsters in the school party were baking hot and getting fractious. Some of the girls had started bickering and were hungry and thirsty, having spent the day walking round the ruins of Pompeii with no shade from the unrelenting sun. By the time they got back to their accommodation, they were tired and desperately in need of energy-giving nourishment.
While one of the volunteers poured them ice cold drinks, Miss Mitchell, one of the teaching staff, had a call on her mob