But who’d broken him out of prison in the first place? Steve Brennan was in his mid-sixties. It wouldn’t have been him. But at the very least he was worth looking at further. It wouldn’t take Bolt long to get hold of the Brennans’ phone records. He thought about doing it now, but it was already close to ten p.m.
He yawned, finished off the Rioja, and looked over at Leanne.
It could wait until tomorrow.
39
Alastair Sheridan missed the hunt.
The hunt had been their thing, the three of them – he, Cem, and their mentor, the man they’d called Mr Bone. After their first two murders they’d worked out a system. Victims were selected from those unlikely to be missed. These included prostitutes, runaways and, more recently, illegal immigrants, usually brought into the country by Cem’s own criminal organization. Only very trusted operatives were involved in procuring the victims and transporting them down to the farm in Wales they’d bought for the specific purpose of the hunt, and even those operatives had no idea what was going to become of the girls.
Over the years, nineteen young women, aged from mid-teens to late twenties, had died at the farm. The police had only found the remains of seven because Cem and Mr Bone had used acid, and more recently pigs, to get rid of the corpses. It had worked well. Sometimes the victims were hunted through the surrounding forest for sport, but more often they were imprisoned in a specially built basement, tortured and raped, usually over the course of a weekend (although one particular beauty had been kept alive for weeks), before finally being put to death. Their ends were always filmed and, although Alastair had learned never to hang onto mementoes of what he’d done, he did enjoy watching the films afterwards when the three of them were together. Reliving those moments gave him a sense of power that he found hard to put into words.
It was highly unlikely they’d ever have been caught if it hadn’t been for Ray Mason. Surprisingly enough, though, Alastair didn’t hold any ill feelings towards him. He wasn’t the kind to brood. Nor was his sadism all-consuming. He was a planner, a man who always had to be in control of a situation. Only when he felt perfectly safe did he let the savagery that resided deep within him out of its box and give it free rein. Then it would be put back in again until the next time. And that was why Alastair had survived and prospered. Because, unlike Mr Bone or even Cem, he was able to live very easily among people who were not like him. He was charming; he could pretend to be kind without anyone noticing his innate fakery. He made people want to like him. That was his genius.
And that, of course, was why he’d be Prime Minister.
It was late when his driver pulled inside the gates of the family home and came to a halt on the large turning circle in front of the main house. Both the driver and the man next to him were armed police officers. Alastair had requested them: he might have been the man who’d organized Ray Mason’s escape from prison but he’d also been prudent enough to know that it might be better to have another layer of protection in place in case, as had happened, Mason disappeared. Obviously, with no known connection between him and Mason, Alastair could hardly have cited him as a reason for needing the bodyguards, so instead he’d sent some threatening letters to himself, and bingo, the bodyguards had materialized. It always amazed him how easy it was to fool people.
The two officers – young, professional, and not easily fazed – got out of the car along with Alastair and walked on either side of him to the front door. They kept their hands close to their guns and a vigilant eye out for any danger. But with each passing hour the threat from Mason receded, and Alastair was feeling safe enough to admire the beauty of the beautifully restored ten-bedroom Georgian mansion he called home, lit up tonight in ethereal green by a dozen strategically placed spotlights. Alastair had bought it outright seven years ago for a little over £6 million, and he’d just had it valued at £8.2 million. His father would have been proud of him.
The Asian officer, Asif (it was always first names with Alastair), placed a phone call to a third officer inside the house, whose job it was to look after Katherine and his son, and she answered the door to them.
‘They’ve both gone to bed, sir,’ she said as Alastair stepped inside followed by the other two, giving him a smile.
She was young, late twenties, handsome rather than pretty, and big-boned, but attractive nonetheless. He gave her a dazzling smile in return, imagining her naked and chained to a bed while he whipped and beat her mercilessly. ‘Thanks, Susie. I think I’ll join them. I’ll see you guys in the morning. Thanks so much for doing this. I really appreciate it.’
He mounted the stairs to the master bedroom, satisfied with how the day had gone. It would have been nicer to know that Mason was riddled with bullets somewhere but he was far less of a threat now that Alastair had police protection. It was time to move into holiday mode, but sleep was far from his mind, and the thought of a naked and bleeding Susie had aroused him.
As he slipped inside the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him, he saw that Katherine was indeed asleep. He stopped by the bed and looked down at her. She was still a good-looking woman, and she kept herself in excellent shape thanks to her personal trainer and yoga sessions, but she’d never really done that much for him,
