Hunter: The Cocaine Trilogy Book 1

By Roger Busby

Revised and updated for the e-reader, Hunter is book one of a trilogy which chronicles police operations to smash an international drugs cartel bent on flooding Britain with Colombian cocaine. The chain of events begin when London gangsters pull off a bullion robbery to finance the drugs deal, but as police move in to thwart their plans suddenly a double murder throws a spanner in the works.
Drawing on an insiders knowledge of police procedure, with Hunter Roger Busby begins a roller coaster ride through the labyrinth of major crime where nothing is quite what it seems.

Prologue

When the supergrass witness in the trial of London's most notorious gangsters becomes the prime suspect in a double murder, Met Crime Squad detective Tony Rowley races to Cornwall in a desperate bid to save the case from collapse. Alone and far from home, the London T/DI must find a flaw in a cast iron murder case in a race against time as the police hierarchy conspires to throw him to the wolves. Caught in a maelstrom of lust, greed, deception and the cold silent world of the stars, Rowley finally discovers the shocking truth, too late, for already the hunter has become the hunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Busby
• Release date: Mar 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476221250

Roger Busby

BUSBY, Roger (Charles). British. Born in Leicester, 24 July 1941. Educated at Bishop Vesey's Grammar School for Boys; Aston University, Birmingham, Certificate in Journalism, 1968. Married Maureen-Jeanette Busby in 1968. Journalist, Caters News Agency, Birmingham, 1959-66, and Birmingham Evening Mail, Force Information Officer, Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, Exeter, 1973-1996. Lieutenant Commander RNR Marine Society and Sea Cadets, London, 1997-2012.

Book preview

Hunter

Book One of the Cocaine Trilogy

By

Roger Busby

Published by

Roger Busby at Smashwords

Hunter

Copyright 2012 by Roger Busby

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy; recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now know or to be invented, without the permission in writing for the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

For Maureen with love

Table of Contents

Description

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

Other Titles

Connect with me

Biography

Description:

Revised and updated for the e-reader, Hunter is book one of a trilogy which chronicles police operations to smash an international drugs cartel bent on flooding Britain with Colombian cocaine. The chain of events begin when London gangsters pull off a bullion robbery to finance the drugs deal, but as police move in to thwart their plans suddenly a double murder throws a spanner in the works.

Drawing on an insiders knowledge of police procedure, with Hunter Roger Busby begins a roller coaster ride through the labyrinth of major crime where nothing is quite what it seems.

Prologue

When the supergrass witness in the trial of London's most notorious gangsters becomes the prime suspect in a double murder, Met Crime Squad detective Tony Rowley races to Cornwall in a desperate bid to save the case from collapse. Alone and far from home, the London T/DI must find a flaw in a cast iron murder case in a race against time as the police hierarchy conspires to throw him to the wolves. Caught in a maelstrom of lust, greed, deception and the cold silent world of the stars, Rowley finally discovers the shocking truth..too late, for already the hunter has become the hunted.

Chapter 1

They were making love. Right there in the afternoon with the brittle March sunshine streaming through uncurtained windows, spilling over the yellow duvet. Marvin Gaye crooned sensuously from the CD player, heightening the mood as they wrestled in careless passion. There in the cedar wood chalet on a Cornish cliff top overlooking the wide bay and the expanse of ocean beyond. As if they were alone in the world. Outside a light groundswell was running, gently rasping the shale. Sea and sky and the yellow duvet twisting around them as they clung to each other and groped for fleeting ecstasy, Ginny French and her fancy man. Making love in the afternoon.

She was eighteen and he was past fifty, but setting the pace with all the youthful vigour she aroused within him, the encroaching grey artfully disguised with all the vanity of a middle-aged man who had ensnared a young girl. The body jewellery, fat rings, heavy identity bracelet, the ostentatious display of wealth contrasted with the fading tattoos on his arms, all greens and blues, sea dragon swallowing an anchor, mermaid entwined with scroll and dagger, tell tale signs of his earlier days at sea before he learned the trick of making money. Without breaking his energetic stride, he rolled the girl on top of him and for a second their identical gold pendants entwined and then parted, the girl’s swinging between her magnificent breasts as she rode him, pumping him with her long thighs.

Ginny French tossed her black mane, wide mouth slightly open as she pleasured him. Ginny who had left home at sixteen to lead her own life? Ginny who had learned with all the subconscious heritage of her gender to use her luxurious body to trap suitors like moths to a flame. She covered his mouth with her moist lips, sank carmen nails into his shoulder as they soared towards their climax.

But there was always that part of her held in reserve, studiously detached from the act of love, which considered this man whose fire would soon explode in her belly. Ah yes, the inner voice whispered to her in satisfaction, of all the lovers she had possessed in her young life, this one was the prize. Oh, not in sexual prowess, for she had known far better, young studs with insatiable stamina, but this man.. ah, this man she could bewitch for a life of luxury. And for a girl from a Cornish village with nothing to trade but her charms, that was the trick. Yes, oh yes, she was pleased with this man. In return for her body he would give her the good life, everything she had ever dreamed of. it would be terrific. Suddenly it seemed so long ago, those days when she had led the local boys a dance in the old lifeboat house and had discovered the secret that sex and love were not necessarily companions and her girlfriends who clung to the notions of romance ended up in a drab council house with a couple of bawling kids. No, not for her, not for Ginny, not now she had this man...

She felt him flagging and panic seized her for an instant. It was important that he should not be disappointed for he might fall into one of his black moods, blame her, doubt their relationship. Quickly she concentrated all her skills to bolster his ego. It was her last conscious act.

The man was far away, consumed by the fire in his loins, and strung out on a wire which suddenly snapped, blossoming. He felt only the star shell of release, the warm pleasure of possession. It was his last sensation.

The door of the cedar wood chalet which had been carelessly left unlocked, opened silently and a black shadow slanted across the bright wedge of sunlight which spilled over the floor. Against the brightness of the day, the features of the figure which moved stealthily inside were perfectly obscured.

The intruder’s eyes were alert, attentive to every detail, pupils dilating, adjusting to the dimness of the interior of the chalet. In the cluttered living-room to the left of the entrance a black kitten with a blue collar sat on a cheap tweed settee and observed the interloper with unblinking curiosity.

Pause for a moment. Listen. Outside the muted groundswell played counterpoint to the caw of the wheeling gulls sailing on the up draught of the cliff. Nearby music was playing softly, and a tight smile formed on the shadowed face as the different sounds were analysed and noted.

A hand delved into a nylon sports bag slung from the shoulder and drew out a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun.

It was an ugly weapon, cut down for ease of concealment, a condition which had no legitimate justification. It was a villain’s piece, a blagger’s shooter.

After a further moment of hesitation, senses now tuned to the tell-tale sounds, the intruder crept to the right, down a passageway, followed by the hazel gaze of the mute witness. Soft footfalls moving through the galley kitchen, eyes taking in the debris of a meal in the sink, empty wine bottle and glasses on the drainer. Moving on towards the velvet voice of Marvin Gaye. The bedroom door was ajar and there was no mistaking the activity taking place within. Silently a hand eased the door wide open.

They lay together, naked on the crumpled bed, humping with the bitch on top. Close enough to touch. The shotgun came up, stunted black barrels sighted on the girl as the forward trigger was squeezed and the first cartridge exploded, sending a hail of shot into Ginny French’s side with such point blank force that she was flung against the wall. Unwavering, the stubby gun adjusted a fraction and sent the second blast into the soft flesh of the man’s exposed belly, throwing up a spray of blood and shredded flesh.

Ears ringing from the reverberations, the killer moved swiftly now, stepped into the room, snapped open the breech and ejected the spent cases. Then, deaf to the gurgling death throes, thumbed two fresh fat orange cartridges into the shotgun and with clinical detachment held the muzzle to the man’s temple and squeezed the lead trigger. The head burst in a mush of grey meal and red spray. The second shot, delivered in the same deliberate fashion, blew away the girl’s face.

As the gun was lowered, a hand reached out and snatched the gold pendant from their throats. Lips drew back into a twisted smile of triumph.

Outside in the bright spring sunshine the circling gulls, startled by the gunfire, wheeled, shrieked an angry protest at the chalet below, soared high on the up draught and cruised out over the sun dappled sea.

Marvin Gaye sang on, crooning his love-songs until the CD came to an end and abruptly the machine clicked off. The yellow duvet ran red with mingling blood.

Chapter 2

You could always count on a class blagger to put on a good show in court, thought Temporary Detective Inspector Tony Rowley as he watched the twins hamming it up for the Deputy Metropolitan Magistrate in Bow Street’s number one court.

Slack-jawed, bulbous-eyed, identical even to the deep tan from their sojourn in Spain, Nick and Vic Pollard alternately glowered at the magistrate taking the further remand or leered at their brood of supporters packing the public gallery in the gloomy oak-panelled court room. Both on the sheet for top weight armed robbery, a ten million bullion tickle from a bonded freight warehouse at Heathrow airport, the twins were giving an Oscar performance befitting their pecking order at the top of London’s underworld.

‘We was fitted, you ratbag!’ Vic exploded as the CPS prosecutor at Rowley’s side briskly outlined the circumstances of the remand application. ‘That’s all bollocks,’ Nick yelled on cue, tugging his arm in agitation so that the prison officers handcuffing the pair had to take a tighter grip. ‘We’ll tear your tongue out, you lying git!’

The supporters’ club growled approval and the twins’ brief a flashy lawyer who specialized in defending high class villains, jumped to his feet, robustly appealing for bail. ‘My clients are reputable businessmen who strenuously deny the allegation...’

Sure, thought Rowley to himself businessmen in boiler suits who’d crazy foamed the surveillance cameras, burst into the bonded facility tooled up with shooters, doused the petrified guards with petrol, torched one’s leg to convince his mates to scrub the security system, then had the Nigerian bullion-in-transit away clean as a whistle. Some funny way to do business.

‘...yes, your worship, most strenuously deny these trumped-up charges,’ the brief protested.

‘Nothing but a lousy fit-up!’ yelled Nick from the dock, squirming to get free of his escort.

‘Stitched up by the filth,’ Vic sang out in agitation. And they would’ve had it away too, Rowley reflected, only they’d been grassed up by one of their own. And not just grassed, super grassed.

‘My clients are quite prepared to cooperate with the court in every respect,’ the lawyer went on. ‘They are men of substance who can meet any bail requirement you care to impose. They are prepared to surrender their passports...’

Nicked as they stepped off the plane from Marbella, thought Rowley, and screaming blue murder ever since. Oh yes, you could count on the twins to put on a show.

‘...I put it to you in the strongest possible terms,’ the brief continued his appeal, ‘that this would be a perfectly proper case for bail to be granted in order that a full defence may be prepared.'

He sat down and the CPS man motioned to Rowley, who left his seat and stepped into the witness-box. The detective had dressed carefully for the occasion. Grey pin stripe suit with just a touch of show handkerchief in the breast pocket. His well-scrubbed face showed no expression as he took the oath and told the stipendiary, ‘Detective Inspector Anthony Rowley, London Crime Squad, your worship.’ He paused for effect and then went into his routine. ‘We oppose bail on the grounds of the gravity of the charge and we have strong reason to believe that if at large these men would seek to intimidate witnesses...’

Pandemonium broke out in court as the twins, livid with anger, wrestled with the prison officers and the supporters began hurling abuse from the gallery.

Unmoved by the drama, the magistrate raised his voice to make himself heard and announced a further remand in custody. The twins went berserk and, watching them from across the court, Rowley couldn’t resist pointedly fingering his tie. It was dark blue with the single pimpernel symbol of the London Crime Squad just below the knot. The gesture was not lost on the twins.

‘We'll top you for this, filth!’ Vic screamed as he was manhandled down the steps to the cells.

‘You and that tosser Duffy!’ Nick yelled as they disappeared from sight.

Order was restored in court as the twins were bundled into holding cells below the building to cool off before their return to the remand wing of Bellmarsh Maximum Security Prison.

‘What’d you think of the double act, Neil!’ Rowley asked the Crown prosecutor as they left the court together.

‘Not much on technical ability, but I’d mark ’em high for artistic impression' replied the lawyer with a smile.

‘It’s all part of the game,’ Rowley reflected. ‘I thought for a minute there, the stipe’d give ’em a roasting for contempt, only I suppose he reckoned it wasn’t worth the aggro.’

The lawyer’s smile faded. ‘Tell you the truth, Tony, they scare the pants off me, oh, not in any physical sense, it’s just what you said, villains like that, they think it’s all part of some game, the criminal process, I mean, just something to manipulate. They really believe they're above the law.’

Rowley said, ‘Yeah, well, the twins have got another think coming, Neil. We've got ’em bang to rights this time. When I think how long that pair have been squad targets, slipping through the net every time we got even close, it gives me a lot of satisfaction to see ’em wriggling on the hook. That brief of theirs is going to have his work cut out earning his money on this one. How’d the pre-trial review go?’

They fell into step, walking through the public foyer towards the street.

‘Oh, not bad at all,’ the prosecutor replied. ‘We’ve got a good silk leading, good advocate, make a nice impression on the jury. The only thing is, the evidence is still a bit on the circumstantial side. You know the rules these days, Tony, fifty one per cent prospect of conviction or we don’t go to bat. Sure we can parade those guards and play up the diabolical ordeal they went through, only they’re not going to be too keen to point a finger at anybody, not with the missus and kids at home. So what it boils down to, we’re going to be leaning heavily on Duffy. Is he going to deliver OK?’

‘What choice has he got?’ Rowley replied. ‘With us, he’s got immunity, witness protection, the whole comfort blanket wrapped around him and a new life to look forward to. He reneges at this late hour and one dark night some joker with a nine is going to amputate his legs at the knees. I’d say he knows which side his bread’s buttered."

‘All the same, you’ve got villain against villain here. Juries don’t understand the subtleties of the arrangement. Supergrass is something they read about in the papers. No, I’m telling you, Tony, Duffy’s going to have to put on a good show, otherwise it’s going to be very iffy.’

‘You know the trouble with you lawyers, Neil? You’re always so pessimistic. Duffy’ll make the grade all right. I mean, it’s in his interests to see the twins go down for a good long time. Besides, we’re the only friends he’s got right now and he knows it.’

‘Still doesn’t alter the fact