You are about to read the first chapter of blind pursuit, if you like what you read, be sure to click the link to amazon and buy yourself a copy to find out what happens next.
__________________________________________________________
CHAPTER ONE
Strong hands pinned his arms firmly behind his back. Another hand pulled his hair, tugging his head back, forcing him to look at his wife. He could not scream; duct tape secured his mouth. Still on his knees, he was dragged closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body. He could see the terror on his wife’s face. Her mouth was similarly gagged. ‘Now watch, Steadman.’ It was a smooth, silky voice from under a thick stocking mask. The silenced muzzle of the gun was placed on his wife’s temple. She was beyond fighting now. Her eyes showed only despair. She looked directly at her husband. Just before the trigger was pulled, she shook her head very slightly; her gaze melted into tenderness, as if to say, ‘It’s not your fault, John. I love you.’ Detective Inspector John Steadman struggled ferociously. Handfuls of hair came out. His jaw twisted and turned as he tried to free it from the tape. His lips were torn, and they bled as a small gap appeared.
‘NO!’ he screamed as loud as he could. It was too late. A muffled ‘phut’, like a cat sneezing; his wife’s head lurched on to her shoulder. As the gun recoiled, her head lifted. The eyes were closed and a large trickle of blood crept down her cheek. Her body went completely limp. Her head flopped forward and blood dripped on to their living room carpet. Steadman was not giving in without a fight. Now four men were on top of him trying to pin him down. The fifth still held the gun. ‘Now your turn.’ He had heard that voice before. He couldn’t place it, but he recognised it nonetheless. The gun was placed on his temple. He was screaming again. ‘No, no – you bastards – no!’ He jerked his head as a gloved finger squeezed the trigger.
* * *
‘You’re all right sir, you’re all right now – here let me help you.’ It was George, one of the caretakers of the safe house. Steadman was sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat, his sheets knotted and his pillows lying on the floor. His sightless eyes wandered in the direction of the comforting voice. ‘Same nightmare again, sir?’ ‘Second time this week,’ replied Steadman faintly.
‘It gets more vivid every time. I just can’t understand…’ ‘Come on, you look as though you could do with a shower. I’ll change the bed. Would a scotch help?’ Steadman sighed, shaking his head as though trying to get rid of the images. ‘Why not? It can’t do any harm. Have one yourself.’ Steadman got to his feet and swayed slightly. ‘Steady now!’ Large damp patches showed on his grey tee shirt. A bead of sweat ran down his long thin nose. He brushed it away. ‘Find your own way there?’ asked George. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He moved cautiously towards the door, his arms slightly outstretched, his fingertips probing the darkness. As he touched the door frame he felt more secure and turned left down the corridor towards the bathroom, sliding a guiding hand along the wall. George watched the retreating figure without comment; anger and pity welled up inside him. He noticed that Steadman’s hair was growing, albeit sparsely, and beginning to cover the patch of reconstructed skull. Odd how a bullet through the back of the brain could leave him almost totally blind, he thought, yet his eyes looked so normal. Steadman had explained it simply: ‘I’ve still got the cameras out front, it’s just that nobody’s in the back shop to develop the pictures.’ It was a good metaphor but a gross oversimplification of his tormented world, now reduced to vague, shifting shades of grey.
He poured two large whiskies. Despite George’s tough ex-paratrooper heart, in the short space of time he’d known John Steadman he’d grown fond of him. Moreover, he kept a fine selection of single malts. Steadman returned refreshed from his shower, wearing a clean white bathrobe. He knew where all the furniture was placed. At first he had counted the steps: two paces to the right, three paces left. Now he had a mental map of his apartment and, provided nothing had been altered, he moved about with deceptive ease. He flopped down into a chair. Deliberately, George placed the whisky rather heavily on the coffee table. ‘Is that mine?’ Steadman inquired. ‘Right in front of you, sir.’ Steadman swept his hand lightly over the table, finding the glass with his first pass. ‘As ever George, you are the hero of the hour.’ Steadman bowed his head in mock deference. ‘I’m only here for the whisky,’ replied George in tones of equal insincerity. ‘I’ll bet you’ve chosen the Talisker.’ ‘How did you work that out? Can you tell by the smell?’ He sniffed the glass. ‘Undoubtedly. However, I know your favourite is Glenmorangie and, if my memory serves me correctly, there is only enough left in that bottle for one glass. It would be more reasonable, therefore, for you to choose your second favourite, the Talisker, which has only just been opened.’ Steadman shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘simple really.’ ‘You’ll be a sad loss to the force. I’ll wager they’re missing you.’ ‘Not half as much as I’m missing them – or my dear Holly…’ his voice trailed away and his sightless eyes filled with tears. They sipped and savoured the peaty island whisky. Steadman brightened up. ‘God bless my ancestors! I believe one of them may have come from the Isle of Skye.’ ‘Is that a fact?’ replied George, his mind more on the whisky. ‘Yes, though I suspect they would probably have been strict teetotallers.’ ‘I doubt it, sir.’ George noted Steadman’s virtually empty glass. ‘Care for another?’ ‘One is enough at this hour. What time is it anyway?’ Looking at his watch, George replied, ‘Five past three. Do you want a hand getting back into bed?’ ‘No, I’m fine now. I think I’ll listen to the BBC World Service for a bit, thanks anyway.’ George paused and put down his empty glass. ‘You know, sir, I’ve been thinking. Would it help to talk it through with someone? I know some of my lads witnessed terrible things, like their chums being blown up in the Middle East. It’s not the same, but some of them found that it helped.’ ‘Not yet, George, maybe later. Maybe never.’
* * *
So, John Steadman, you survived. All my careful plans were to no avail. You have no idea how long I had waited for that one moment: no idea just how much my hatred has grown over time. It burns inside me, consuming my every waking minute. I can remember the moment of that initial hurt with such clarity that it might have occurred only a few hours ago. The passing of the years has, if anything, brought those events into sharper focus. I still feel the humiliation, the sickening pain in the pit of my stomach. Even now I can taste the bitter tears as I choked and sobbed all those years ago. I swallowed an ember of resentment that day and it stuck in my gullet. No amount of personal fame or wealth has extinguished that flame. No amount of alcohol or drugs ever dimmed its light. I had it all: the cars, the women, the big houses, the lavish lifestyle, and I laughed and grinned. I smiled for the cameras, waved to the crowds and protected myself with a carapace as tough as a dung beetle’s. But inside I still writhed. One day, I thought, one day… I followed your career – a policeman, a common copper; mundane for someone so gifted. Was it to make up for your pathetic father? Oh yes, I know all about him too. And your son; I met him, an illusionist in an ‘alternative’ circus. God, how that must have disappointed you, you who like everything so neat, so tidy. I toyed with the idea of making him ‘disappear’; a befitting end for an illusionist! But which would hurt you more – his loss, or the constant thorn of your disappointment in him? The latter, I think.
Money is no solace, yet it can satisfy one’s needs. Did I offer too much to avenge the wrong? I think not. Four greedy louts from the feral, criminal low life, willing to do my bidding, but I would hold the gun. You know what you took from me, don’t you, or could you just not see it? Ironic isn’t it – you now being truly blind. That wasn’t how it was meant to be. That’s not how it will be. I do not know how or when I will kill you. With subtlety I think, you’d appreciate that. Don’t be mistaken, for one day I will kill you, John Steadman
