Violation
An Adam Black thriller
Karl Hill
Copyright © 2020 Karl Hill
The right of Karl Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-913419-87-5
Contents
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Prologue
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
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
A note from the publisher
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Unleashed
Prologue
1960. Torburn House. Residential Children’s Home, Dundee.
The building was old. A rambling Victorian school built of stone the colour of mud. Peaked grey slate roof. A place dark and sombre. Great high ceilings. Bare white walls. Windows which were never opened. Lighting from glass sconces positioned high up. They flickered sometimes, when there was a storm.
The two boys, who seemed inseparable, were always cold. They were given matching blue pullovers, but the cloth was thin and itched the skin. All the boys wore the same. Blue pullovers, blue shorts, blue socks. Two hundred uniforms. Twenty beds in each dormitory. Ten dormitories.
They were playing together, just the two of them. They had been told to stay behind. They played on the wooden floorboards, cross-legged, facing each other. They could feel the draught against their bare knees. One was ten, the other eight. Between them were toy soldiers. Medieval warriors, with white armour, clutching tiny swords and shields. And a little wooden catapult contraption. They played quietly, knocking soldiers down, picking them up, arranging them in a careful display, whispering to each other. Communication was always by a whisper. They were too frightened to talk any louder. Fear dominated every second of their existence.
Suddenly, the door at the end of the room opened. The boys’ heads jerked round, then back to the floor. If you didn’t look at them, didn’t make eye contact, then you weren’t chosen. Sometimes.
Three men approached. Footsteps creaked on the wooden floor. Heavy black shoes, polished and gleaming in the half light. Neither boy looked up. The three men stood over them. Nothing was said. Eventually one spoke, a rich, deep voice. A voice they knew well.
“Hello, boys.”
The boys did not reply.
“Shy.”
Laughter.
Another man got down on his knees, so he was almost level. “These look fantastic.” He picked up one of the toy soldiers. “Marvellous detail.” He raised it up to show the other men. “Do you know what these soldiers are?”
Neither boy lifted his head.
“You can tell by the red cross on their chests. They were called Crusaders. They fought for God.”
He replaced the soldier back carefully to where he’d found it.
“I love your battle formations,” he continued. “Wouldn’t like to meet either of you in a fight, for sure.”
He turned to one of them, the younger one. “Have you got a favourite?”
The boy reached over, and picked one up.
“Can I see?”
He handed it to him.
The man held it up, turning it delicately in his fingers, admiring it in the amber glow of the lighting above.
“Now he is special. He must be a Lord or a King. He looks very regal. He’s wearing a fancy robe. He must be their leader. Does he have a name?”
The boy looked up at the man, eyes wide. He darted a glance to one of the other men, the one who had spoken initially, seeking approval. The man gave a nod – yes, you’re allowed to talk.
“The Grey Prince.” His voice was small in that vast place.
“I like it. The Grey Prince. Suits him.” He gave it back, then stood.
Both boys sat, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the bare wooden floor, staring at nothing. Waiting.
“We’ll play our game, shall we,” spoke the one with the rich, deep voice.
“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe…” The voice continued, on and on, smooth and flowing, until it reached the end of the rhyme.
“Well, well,” said the other man who had spoken. “Looks like our little Grey Prince is the lucky winner.”
Laughter again, three deep voices echoing up into the high ceiling.
“Stand up, please, Grey Prince.”
The boy got to his feet, head down, eyes never leaving the floor.
One of the men took the boy by the hand, and led him from the room, followed by the other two. The boy remaining didn’t move until they’d left. His shoulders trembled, as he started to cry small, soft tears. He had no choice but to cry quietly, in case his worst dread was realised. That they return.
He studied the array of toy soldiers on the floor before him. He picked up his friend’s favourite, and put it in his trouser pocket. He hadn’t realised it had a name. Now he knew.
The Grey Prince.
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Life is not designed to be fair. It’s designed to be
