Hunter Hunted, Jack Gatland [good story books to read .txt] 📗

‘We play a game now,’ he explained as he reached into his pocket again, pulling out another cut-throat razor. ‘I will flip it. If it lands heads, I will take this razor, this very sharp blade and slash my throat open. If it shows tails, however, you will do this instead, yes?’

‘No!’ Craig rose now, angry. ‘You’re mad! I—‘ he stopped as a heaviness overcame his legs, sending him back to the tree trunk. ‘What did you do?’

‘I told you,’ the man replied. ‘Schnapps. With a little benzocaine.’

‘I don’t want to play,’ Craig whined, realising that this was a terrible place to be right now.

‘I understand, it is scary,’ the man nodded sympathetically. ‘But you have been a wicked man, Craig. As have I. And as such we must face repercussions.’ He rolled the coin over his fingers. ‘And you might not get tails. I might lose.’

‘I’ll scream,’ Craig insisted. ‘I’ll call for help.’

‘And that is your right,’ the man nodded calmly. ‘But know that if you do, I will be gone before anyone arrives. And then, at some point very soon, I will enter your house while your mother, father and dear little sister Ellie are asleep and I will slowly and painfully skin them all alive. And then I will find you and make you watch as I slice pieces off you with this straight razor.’

Craig was crying. ‘Please, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to die.’

The old man smiled.

‘Maybe you will not,’ he said as he flicked the coin into the air, watching it lazily flip before landing back on the back of his hand. ‘Let us see, shall we?’

DI Freeman climbed out of his BMW and looked around the campsite. It was right after the school holidays had started, and there were families and children everywhere. A nightmare to keep a crime scene contained.

There was a perimeter already placed around the entrance to the copse; a couple of police officers ensuring that the small crowd of onlookers couldn’t enter. This was good. They really didn’t want to see this.

One onlooker, a young dark-skinned woman with frizzy black hair, waved to him as he approached the police officers, catching his eye. Forcing a smile while silently swearing, Freeman walked over to her.

‘Kendis,’ he said amiably. ‘I didn’t think you worked for The Maidenhead Advertiser anymore?’

‘I don’t,’ Kendis Taylor replied, putting her phone onto voice recorder. ‘But I’m visiting mum; it’s the Olympic opening ceremony tonight and my cousin’s in it. Saw the blues and twos as I was driving to her, thought I’d come have a look.’

Freeman wanted nothing more than to escape. ‘You needn’t turn that on. There’s no story here.’

‘You sure?’

Without answering, Freeman walked away from the annoying reporter, showing his ID to the nearest officer and passing under the incident tape, entering the woodland clearing. Here he found more officers, mainly forensics, working the case while the public were kept out of sight. Recognising one of the officers through the white PPE suit she wore, he waved to gain her attention. Regan was a solid SOCO, and he didn’t want to piss her off if he could help it, so he kept as far away as he could.

‘What’ve we got?’ he asked. Regan walked over to him, glancing back as she did. On the floor, lying on his back, his arms outstretched and his throat slashed, was a teenage boy.

‘Craig Randall, fifteen years old, throat slashed from right to left,’ she said, making the motion with her hand. ‘Went out with the dog two hours back. Dog arrived back in the campsite about an hour ago. Family went looking for him, couldn’t find him, tried calling his phone, no answer. Eventually that caravan there heard the ringing and entered the woods, thinking someone had lost a phone. Instead, they found this.’

‘Nice,’ Freeman stared at the body. ‘Cause of death?’

‘We think it’s some sort of razor,’

‘Think?’ Freeman looked back to Regan. ‘No weapon found?’

‘None yet,’ Regan admitted. ‘But then he could have slashed his throat and then thrown it into the bushes or even the stream.’

‘You think this was self inflicted?’ This surprised Freeman. Regan waved for him to follow, moving a little closer to the body, but not close enough to contaminate the scene.

‘See there? The cut is from right to left,’ she explained. ‘It’s jagged, so it wasn’t committed; almost like he started, stopped and then continued through.’ She pointed to the left hand, currently against the ground. ‘Blood started spurting out on the right-hand side, then spurts to the left as he continues to cut, where it splatters all over his fist and arm. But his palm is absent of any sign of it.’

‘Because he was gripping something,’ Freeman nodded. ‘Any reason he’d do this?’

‘Apart from the fact that he’s apparently a little shit with a bit of a rep for being a bully?’ Regan shrugged. ‘Better ask the parents.’

‘No note?’

Regan pointed to a tree where, on the bark, was etched one word.

SORRY

‘That do for you?’ she asked.

DI Freeman sighed. ‘Anything else?’

‘Actually, yes,’ Regan waved to an assistant who passed over a clear plastic bag. In it was a piece of card the size of a business card, blank except for one image; a little red man with what looked like a hat on, arms out to the side, and holding a scythe. ‘We think this is some kind of collectable—‘

‘It’s murder,’ Freeman said, his face draining of all colour. ‘This wasn’t suicide. I need to call Walsh.’

‘Walsh? Why does he need to get involved?’ Regan was irritated now, aware that she’d missed something, but unaware of what it was.

‘Because we’ve seen that picture before,’ Freeman replied, pulling out his phone and dialling. ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he eventually said into it. ‘Get Detective Chief Inspector Patrick Walsh on the line, now.’

He looked back to the body.

‘Tell him we have another Red Reaper.’

About the Author

Hi, I’m Jack.

I’ve been an award-winning writer several times under other