SYNOPSIS
Tommy Donohue is trying to make the best of his life. He has a shady past and a hatred for violence, but one encounter with three thugs in his pub prompts his past to catch up with him. He’s informed that the ruthless crime-lord of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Frank ‘The Hatchet ‘ Hackett wants to meet with him. He has no choice but to attend the meeting as he owes Hackett a big favour that goes back seven years, now he’s calling it in.
As Donohue is drawn into a merciless and violent underworld, his life begins to crumble piece-by-piece around him, stretching his sanity to the limit and forcing him to wrestle with overwhelming feelings of guilt, sorrow, regret and even love.
Detective Inspector Tony Johnson is a dying man consumed by bitterness and hatred. He’s the one Police officer who
can’t be bought, and he also has unfinished business with Donohue and Hackett. But being suspended from a corrupt and
negligent Police force, he ironically invents his own rules to exact justice upon his adversaries.
Bobby Smith suffered appalling injuries at the hands of Hackett on the school playing fields in 1980 and after years of
surgery to reconstruct his face, he goes on a three-day murderous rampage in the summer of 1984, roaming the Lake
District and killing innocent campers indiscriminately. When he escapes from Rampton Mental hospital in the present day, Hackett’s criminal empire begins to collapse as his family and criminal associates are brutally slain, one-by-one. However, the list of Hackett’s enemies is endless, so the elusive serial killer could be just about anybody, and the incompetent Police force have no leads, no witnesses, nothing.
Bryan, Donohue’s younger brother is a small-time villain, who with an assortment of delinquent hoodlums graduates to
robbery and murder in order to fund his girlfriend’s crack addiction. He successfully eludes authorities until the ultimate job, that will set him up for life, but his luck is about to run out with disastrous consequences.
Meanwhile, P.L.A.P.I., the Peoples Lobby Against Police Incompetence, are a self-styled group of vigilante rabble-rousers, who are set to tear the city apart at the very seams, as their daring protest march draws ever nearer. The bloody riot that ensues makes the Tyneside riots of 1991 look pale by comparison.
From the seedy backstreets of Amsterdam to the dangerous streets of Newcastle, this is a tale of murder, revenge and
corruption, brimming with unforgettable characters and suspects. It hurtles towards an explosive climax followed by the
ultimate showdown, which will change the lives of the survivors forever.
CHAPTER 19 ONE STUBBORN LADY
WINDERMERE, CUMBRIA. JULY 1984:
Bobby Smith wished he had a shotgun; he wanted to see somebody’s head explode when he pulled both triggers
simultaneously at point blank range. The scene in the film ‘Maniac’ ,when Tom Savini gets his head blown off was one of the best he’d ever seen. He wondered how and where he could acquire such a firearm. He quickly dismissed the idea and thought about the lethal machete underneath the passenger seat of the stolen Range Rover; it would have to suffice for now there should be plenty of campers and hikers for him to slay this time of year.
He decided to slow down, for he didn’t want to attract attention at such a crucial time in his life (especially with a
dismembered corpse in the back of the vehicle), and he knew that most serial killers were caught through traffic offences. The police pulled Peter Sutcliffe over because of false number plates and unwittingly saved a prostitute’s life in the process. Police stopped Randy Craft, (the killer of over sixty young men), for driving erratically, they found a body in his car. Even Ted Bundy’s tan Volkswagen Beetle eventually gave him away.
The small and quaint town of Windermere was behind him now and the blistering sun shone mercilessly through the
windscreen causing beads of sweat to run down his disfigured face. He turned on the cold air-conditioning to alleviate the
humidity in the stifling confines of the car.
He now travelled south along the A592 and he had a magnificent view of Lake Windermere to his right. He had to find a spot where he could set up his camp-site, for his right hand throbbed with the effort of holding the steering wheel. He’d been driving for over three hours since he’d stole his Dad’s Range Rover. He was glad his Dad used to teach him all he knew about driving. Luckily, his parents were in the back garden sunbathing and they’d foolishly left the front door open, so it didn’t take him long to locate the car keys.
The gruelling chore of lugging the body parts down the massive stairwell proved the most exhausting, he didn’t risk
using the lift for fear of being seen by other tenants, and if the lift happened to break down (which it did quite frequently) his days might have been well and truly numbered. He then had to return for his supplies.
His initial intention was to weigh the corpse down with bricks and dump it in the River Tyne but he thought that might be too risky and besides, he felt like going on a killing spree sometime this month anyway, so he might as well dump it
somewhere far from home, she probably wouldn’t even be missed.
There was a thick wooded area ahead; it looked perfect. With great difficulty, he eased the Range Rover along a beaten track until he reached a small clearing far from prying eyes; it was an idyllic spot, as secluded as it could get. He glanced through the windows at the trees and undergrowth all around him and wondered how to dispose of the bags of grisly
remains. He’d flushed the entrails and organs down the toilet the night before, and he’d boiled the head in a large stockpot
until the flesh turned to an oily, greasy sludge, which also went down the toilet there were only limbs, torso and skull left to contend with.
He quickly clambered from the Range Rover, deciding to venture a few more feet into the woods and just dump the bags anywhere at will, the wildlife will probably have a good feed over the next few days. He didn’t want to walk too far in case he got lost, for the thick forest was impenetrable by the afternoon sun.
By the time he’d returned to the Range Rover it was 5:09 pm so he decided to have one of the eight tins of beans and
sausages, which he’d remembered to bring before he left his flat, followed by a few cans of cider and a joint while he
considered his next move. He tried to heat up the beans and sausages by holding his lighter underneath the tin but it proved fruitless, and he didn’t want to waste fuel.
After he’d eaten, he downed three of the twenty-four cans of cider in quick succession before lighting up one of the three ready-made joints. He sat contemplating his Dad’s reaction when he discovered the disappearance of his beloved Range Rover; he would definitely have reported it stolen by now.
“Ha ha, the stupid bastard loved his crappy car more than he did his family, I hope the old twat dies of skin cancer,” he said through disfigured lips.
He turned on the radio and smiled in disbelief and humour when he heard the song on Radio 1. It was ‘Killer on the Loose’ by Thin Lizzy. He began to sing along to the chorus.
“There’s a killer on the loose again, a killer on the loose. There’s a killer on the loose again, a lady-killer on the loose.”
He abruptly turned off the radio, as it reminded him of the time four years before, when he was undergoing extensive
surgery for his injuries. He vividly remembered the song reaching number ten in the charts in September 1980. It was
always on the hospital radio headset, and every time he heard it since, it reminded him of Frank Hackett.
He reached underneath the passenger seat and pulled out a leather bag, which contained two items he would need: a white hood made from a pillowcase with two eyeholes cut into it, and his machete. He climbed from the vehicle once more and headed towards the edge of the forest. He glanced over his shoulder at the fading Range Rover, and hoped he could find his way back.
Rays of sunshine beat down on him as he crept along the edge of a field, keeping low. Every now and then, he would stop and peer over the cobbled perimeter wall searching for potential victims along the country lane. Sheep looked on
curiously as he carried on his quest. He guessed he’d already covered a mile and he was becoming increasingly impatient.
“Where the hell is everybody? It’s only just after six; there must be some people out hiking somewhere.” His voice sounded even more distorted through his makeshift mask. He decided to stop for a rest. Then he heard it, distant voices
getting closer, and he saw that it was a couple, which he guessed to be in their thirties. She was short with collar-length dark hair and appeared to be quite overweight, while he was tall and balding. They seemed to be having an argument but he would soon put an end to that. He waited, crouching low, his machete gripped tightly in his disfigured right hand.
He wondered if he should wait until they walked past; then try to sneak up behind them or just confront them head on with the element of surprise, he decided surprise was the key…