Hunter

Ross Greenwood

Description

There’s a killer on the streets, and no one is safe…

First there was the drowned man, but maybe his death was an accident?

Then there were the decapitated bodies, the burnt girl, the women pursued in the dark. Finally the police have to admit there’s a serial killer on the loose and he seems set on revenge. His name is Abel and his crimes are escalating every day.

Dan Flood, Olivia Jones and their two young children are a family at breaking point. The mundane juggle of parenting and work means that the romance is draining away. Living in a community that is growing ever more fearful, just adds to the pressure in their lives.

But when Abel turns his attention on Olivia, only Dan can save her…

Bestseller Ross Greenwood’s serial killer thriller is perfect for fans of Mark Billingham, Ian Rankin and Peter Robinson.

This book was previously published as ABEL’S REVENGE.

What the bloggers are saying about Hunter:

‘That ending! I never in a million years expected to read what I did. It left me really quite shocked.’ A Lover Of Books Blog

‘I finished this last night and all I will say is wow.... I sat with my jaw on the floor.’ Nickibookblog

‘I’ll just say.. wow, wow, wow. Stunning.’ Misfits Farm Book Reviews

‘A dark and disturbing psychological thriller.’ Bitsaboutbooks Reviews

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Vie de famille
• Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants
• Soutien psychologique et conseils familiaux
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Hard-Boiled
• Thrillers
• Suspenso
• Street crime
• Psychological thriller
• True crime
• Violent crime
• General officer
• Parenting
• Serial killer
• Psychology
• City Life
• Murder
• General
• Serial Killers
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 05 décembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9781802804126
• Langue: English

Extrait

HUNTER


ROSS GREENWOOD
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75


Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

More from Ross Greenwood

About the Author

About Boldwood Books

About the Author
In memory of Nigel Batley
A book lover.
Treasured by family and friends.
1960-2022
1
ABEL

My mother called it the sickness. Those six words sum up my childhood.
First, until I hit eighteen, she insisted I call her mother. That doesn’t lend itself to warmth and affection. It’s a poor baseline for family life. It may be that I was born damaged, but my upbringing made things worse.
My mother suffered complications after the birth. She experienced excessive bleeding and multiple stitches. They told her to think hard before having another child. In the end, I was it. It’s strange to imagine their hopes and dreams resting with me. My destiny was elsewhere from their idle thoughts.
They called me Abel. It’s powerful with an element of fear. My mother said she wanted a name people would remember. How right she would prove to be.
Second, my behaviour changed when I started senior school. I don’t think anyone notices odd conduct before that unless you’re off the scale. Mother found me blasting insects with a magnifying glass, or crucifying teddies on the rockery. Poor Action Man was burnt at the stake for failing to respond to questioning.
They caught me watching a neighbour’s house in flames. Instead of making an emergency call, I sat on my coat on their lawn and watched the blaze take hold. The police thought they had an easily solvable case. They only exonerated me when the couple confessed they might have fallen asleep with a pan on the stove.
They asked why I didn’t tell anyone about the fire. I said I assumed someone else would. I knew that wasn’t true, and I simply wanted to see what would happen. After the fuss died down, I realised I was different. Not from everyone, but from most. I felt responsible, and an influential part of me enjoyed that.
I read the Bible and came upon the story of Abel. I discovered his brother murdered him and then Abel was forgotten. The focus was on Cain, despite his terrible deed. To my young mind, that felt wrong. I took that lesson to heart. Evil people may commit dark deeds, but it is they who are remembered and they who have the power.
The next year, a friend and I climbed a wall. He fell. The school found me observing him as opposed to going for help, despite his howling cries of agony. That ended another of my dwindling acquaintances, and the gossip about me pushing him found its way home. I had bursts of crazy behaviour and then spells of normality. My memories of events were hazy afterwards. I decided I just wouldn’t remember. Try it some time, it’s a learned skill.
Thereafter, it was the sickness, as if labelling it made it somehow more acceptable to my mother. Like wrapping a dog shit in birthday paper. My mother wasn’t affectionate anyway, so nothing much changed. My understanding was she thought parenthood was a duty you endured until the children left the house and were no longer your responsibility.
My father cross-dressed. She called that the problem. He edited books and worked from home. My memories are of him being in his office with his male friends, laughing and drinking. I recall thinking he had a great job.
I’ve no idea why my parents didn’t split up, as they led separate lives from what I could see. Perhaps because, even though she had no empathy, she did have determination, tenacity and her faith. Maybe that’s what they’ll inscribe on her gravestone. ‘Here lies Isabella, she persevered’. She couldn’t have expected things to work out the way they did. Bless her. The sickness and the problem. It’s not surprising she wasn’t fond of trips to the coast and family meals.
My dad’s flamboyance became more noticeable as the years passed. Around the time I was acting oddly, he began to be seen around town. As Lucille. That’s a tough thing to explain for any twelve-year-old. As a late developer, I had little with which to defend myself.
That was a bad year. An impotent rage coursed through my body and a desire for control stamped itself on my personality. The bullies placed various letters in front of my name to insult and humiliate me. I became isolated and furious, and I wanted revenge. My parents moved us miles away. I left Abel behind and used my middle name.
I still struggled to connect with others and saw life as a game, the people just pieces – ones to be idly swept from the board when their time came. For unknown reasons, I didn’t see children and animals in the same light. Maybe their innocence meant different rules applied. At the beginning, I hoped my parents would notice me. I soon quit that pointless task. Later, I wanted to lash out, to hurt, but I was too weak, and too lonely.
Long years passed. I finished school and applied to a college on the other side of the country, where nobody knew my history. There, I legally changed my surname, too.
I couldn’t cope with the routine of academic life. The endless deadlines had me permanently on edge. Sleep eluded me. I remained in touch with my parents, but I discovered girls, drink and drugs. After a night out, Abigail, a girl from the local area, accused me of rape.
I had become interested in dominance and persuasion. I wasn’t particularly bothered about having sex with the girls I met, but I was keen to see how far they’d go. It thrilled me to think someone I had met a few hours before, who I might have bought a drink, would later let me insert part of my body into hers.
As with all things, I pushed too much. Many women have no boundaries, but Abigail did. She reported me to the authorities, and it looked bleak. It turned out my dad knew an influential man from a club he attended. To my amazement, the charges were dropped if I agreed never to approach her again. I can only guess money changed hands. That was one of the few gifts my dad gave me. The other was the chat we had afterwards.
He called me to his office on a Sunday morning and stated that we should talk.
‘People are different,’ he said. ‘You may find it better to conceal yourself in plain sight. Society expects us to live a certain way and, even if that’s not who you are, it’s easier to give people what they want. Eventually, like me, you won’t be able to control the impulses from within. What then emerges is the real you. That creature may only be here for a short time. If that’s the case, revel in the joy of those moments, and smile at the end.’
I remember nodding. Something inside recognised his words and their coils tightened on my soul.
‘Failing that,’ he said, ‘stifle it with alcohol. That worked for me.’
He grinned, but that’s what I did. I self-medicated with a vast range of substances, and concealed myself amongst those who would reject me.
My mother was rigid, but she showed me right from wrong. My father was the dangerous one, because he taught me how to hide.
Six months later, I drove to Abigail’s home to see if I wanted retribution. Her family had little. They lived in a labourer’s cottage on a farm. I waited behind a tree with a telescope until she appeared. The breeze swirled her dress, and I imagined her giggling as she pushed it down. However, I couldn’t see the detail as even with the magnified vision she was still a blur. I wasn’t stupid enough to be seen.
Should I drive Abel to the deepest part of me, and bury him with shame? Would he leave me? Might Abel die?
Later, I pondered on what the whole experience had been like for Abigail. Then the truth hit. I didn’t feel anything at all.
2
JUDITH, THE BIRDWATCHER

Judith pulls her large front door closed and walks down her circular driveway. She stops when she arrives at the pavement and turns to the house. Such a grand building, although she never thought she’d end up living in only a few rooms. Raymond’s Daimler is still parked outside the double garage. Not being able to drive herself, she wasn’t sure what to do with it. The car, and most things, are losing the battle against the elements. She doesn’t want to change anything though, as this way, sometimes at least, it feels as if he might return.
She picks her route along the bulging paving slabs. You need to be careful at this time of the morning. Her closest friend, only friend really, broke her hip tripping on one. The infection she caught in hospital killed her. She would have been sixty today. Judith’s vision blurs with tears as she struggles to remember how many years ago that accident was, and fails to recall why they always laughed together.
Lost in her memories, she bumps into the elbow of Thomas from a few doors away. He was in a trashy magazine she read about thirty-somethings partying in London and she recognised his face. Aftershave fills the air, and she admires his expensive going-out clothes. Coming home clothes