Contents
Title
Copyright
Also by Pat Young
Praise For Pat Young
Dedication
For Hugo
August 2018
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
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Revenge Runs Deep
By
Pat Young
Copyright © 2019 Pat Young
The right of Pat Young to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2019 by Learig Publishing,
Icona Point, London.
Cover Design by Michael Andrew Kelly
https://michaelandrewkelly.weebly.com
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 reproduction, 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.
e-book ISBN: 978-1-9160680-1-8
Also by Pat Young,
Winner of the Scottish Association of Writers’ Constable Stag Trophy
and Imprint Writing Award
Till The Dust Settles
I Know Where You Live
One Perfect Witness
Praise For Pat Young
‘An accomplished plot, plenty of twists and turns and excellent characterisation made this book a real page turner’.
Kate Maloney - Bibliophile Book Club
‘Till The Dust Settles is an intriguing read and one I actually flew through in one sitting.’
Joanne Robertson - My Chestnut Reading Tree
‘Loved it from start to finish.’ Jo - Goodreads Reviewer
‘This is a you gotta read book, a brilliant debut. Really excited about this lady’s writing. Superb!’
Susan Hampson - Books From Dust Till Dawn
‘Till The Dust Settles is an intense powerful and heart-wrenching read about love, loss and ultimate devastation.’
Kaisha Holloway - The Writing Garnet
‘What a clever book, I couldn’t put it down.’
Cariad - Goodreads Reviewer
‘It was suspenseful, thrilling, addictive, captivating, and left me guessing the whole way through.’ Dash Fan Book Reviews
‘… it has the author’s excellent attention to detail and great writing style and I loved the lot.’
Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Club
‘Another stunning thriller from Pat Young …’
Livia Sbarbaro - Good Reads Reviewer
‘OMG! I have just devoured this book in almost one sitting apart from time to get some shut-eye!’
Sharon Bairden - Chapter In My Life
‘Pat Young’s I Know Where you Live is a thrilling read and makes the reader do a bit of soul searching along the way.’
Susie - Goodreads Reviewer
This book is dedicated to all the fine teachers I’ve known in my life, among them my darling friend, June Gilliland, now lost to us all.
For Hugo Brierley, my darling grandson, who lights up our lives.
August 2018
Their bodies were easy to spot. Skinny limbs tangled and snagged like pale sticks in a dark, underwater forest of weeds. Impossible to tell the drowning pal from the daft hero that tried to save him. One of their mothers was sucking on a cigarette at the side of the loch, desperate to find someone to blame, her heartache masquerading as anger. Danny hadn’t wasted time on false comfort. There was no chance of a happy ending.
Freeing one boy from the clutches of his friend, Danny cradled him and kicked for the surface. The mother screamed, and stumbled into the water to meet him. She grabbed her boy, hugging his lifeless body to her breast, wailing like the world would end. Danny took the weight of mother and son, struggling to keep his footing as he dragged them to the shore.
He pushed back his mask and took in the scene. At the water’s edge three pale-faced youths shivered in their underwear. ‘Can somebody no save him?’ asked one, his voice breaking as he looked from the police to the paramedics and back to Danny.
Danny shook his head. ‘Too late for that, son. Sorry.’
‘Did ye find Liam?’
‘Aye, we found him. He’ll be out in a minute. Put your clothes on, pal, eh? You could be here a while.’
‘Is Liam okay? He only went in to save Jamesy.’
Danny knew he should be feeling a lot more sadness but this wasn’t the first time the team had been called out on a hot day to a drowning caused by drink. Something in the Scottish mentality equated warm weather with the need to get bevvied. Probably the same gene that made Scots sacrifice their skimmed-milk skins to the sun god. March, May or August, a wee blink of sun and it was ‘taps aff’. If you passed out after a few cans and woke up with second degree burns, so what? Your mates got a great laugh and you were a legend. If you drowned yourself trying to rescue your mate you were a hero. In a few hours this place would be covered in cheap bouquets and football strips and these clowns would
be ‘lost angels’ on Facebook. RIP Liam and Jamesy.
Danny waded back into the loch, his mind on the tragic waste of two young lives. He found his mate gently retrieving the second body from the grasping weeds. A shaft of sunlight lit up Liam’s face. He was just a kid. Pasty skin dotted with acne, hair dyed a blotchy blonde by an amateur hairdresser, probably himself. His faded boxers were worn into holes, their designer waistband a dirty grey. Didn’t seem to matter how long Danny did this job, it didn’t get any easier. Every loss of a young life still ripped his heart out.
With Liam accounted for, Danny flashed his torch in a quick scan of the underwater vista. The beam disappeared into the distance, only just picking out the ledge where the water depth plummeted from feet to fathoms. Danny saw the shape of something big resting on the edge. It had to be a car. Maybe he’d dive down for a closer look, or maybe he’d pretend he’d never seen it and head home to his barbecue. If there was somebody inside they’d been fish-food for months. It was much more likely to be empty, a motor stolen in town then dumped by some thieving arsehole covering his tracks.
Danny turned for the shore. Tonight’s priority was these boys.
And a beer.
*
‘And now, at the top of the hour, it’s Julie-Ann with the news and weather.’
Sheila preferred to be in the car by the time the eight o’clock news came on, otherwise she got snagged in the rush hour traffic. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and reached for the radio’s off switch.
‘Police divers investigating the tragic drowning of two youths at Loch Etrin reservoir yesterday have discovered a four by four vehicle submerged in deep water. There appears to have been only one person in the vehicle but police say they are not in a position to reveal an identity at this time.’
Sheila froze, wishing for a replay button so she could listen again. Loch Etrin? A four by four? It had to be. She dropped her bag on the work surface and dug for her phone, then for her purse where she kept a number on a tiny slip of paper.
It rang, meaning Marty hadn’t changed her phone. It continued to ring.
Sheila didn’t dare leave a voicemail. ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered, glancing at the clock. Not that the traffic mattered any more.
The ringing stopped. ‘Hi, who is this, please?’
‘Marty, it’s Sheila. They’ve found a car in Loch Etrin.’
‘You’re joking.’
Sheila knew not to respond to that statement. It was often a first response to shocking news.
‘Sheila, please tell me you’re joking.’
‘As if I’d joke about this. I just heard it on Clydesound. A four by four with one person inside.’
Sheila heard barking in the distance, as if the dog was outside. She waited, the line quiet for so long she began to wonder if Marty had gone to let him in.
‘Marty, are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say something.’
‘What is there to say?’
‘Do you think it’s Joe?’
No response. Just the dog, still barking.
‘Marty, it must be Joe.’
‘But Marty …’
‘I’ll be changing my number, Sheila, so you can’t call me. Might even buy a new phone. I should have done that months ago.’
‘But you and I need to talk about this.’
‘No, you’re wrong. And don’t even think about talking to anyone else. Ever. Not unless you want us both in prison.’
***
CHAPTER 1
August 2017 (One year earlier)
She was making dinner, a glass of gin and tonic icy in her hand, when the call came.
Marty switched to speakerphone and laid her mobile on the work-surface. She didn’t want his voice near her face.
‘Marty, I need a word.’
A word? At this time on a Friday night?
Nerves made her sarcastic, or maybe it was the gin.
‘Good evening, Mr Smeaton,’ she said. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I take no pleasure in this, I assure you.’
Something in his tone set alarm bells jangling. Marty touched her forehead with fingers that were damp and cold from her glass.
‘Marty, what I’m about to say is very, very serious.’
Nightmare scenarios flashed across her vision. Bus crashes, fires, overdoses, stabbings. All the horrors that haunted a head-teacher. ‘Oh God, has something happened?’ Her drink slipped from her fingers and shattered on the ceramic hob.
David appeared in the doorway. Looked at the broken glass, then at her. She knew he was thinking of their only son, far from home. She shook her head, it’s not Mark.
‘You could say that,’ said Smeaton, ‘but no major incident, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘No kids hurt?’ She blew out hard, felt the adrenaline ebb away. ‘That’s all I care about.’
Her heart beat several times before he answered.
‘Only one, as far as I know.’
‘Oh, no. What’s happened?’
He ignored her question. ‘But others may come forward. They usually do.’
The man wasn’t making sense. She wondered if he’d been at the bottle. ‘Others may come forward? What are you talking about?’
‘May I suggest you moderate your tone, Marty? I also suggest you do not underestimate the gravity of your situation.’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me. The gravity of my situation?’
More heart beats passed. Their rhythm getting faster.
He cleared his voice as if he were about to make a speech. ‘As of today you are formally suspended from your post as head-teacher of Moorcroft Academy. You may not enter the premises under any circumstances.’
‘What?’ She laughed at him. ‘Not enter the premises? Don’t be daft. Moorcroft Academy is my school. I run the place.’
‘Not any more, you don’t.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since this afternoon. When you inappropriately touched a pupil in your office.’
‘I touched a pupil? What pupil? The only pupil in my office today was Lee-Anne McCarthy.’ As she said the name, a wave of nausea made her move to the sink and lean over it.
David came and stood beside her, one hand cupping her elbow. She pushed him away. She didn’t want him listening to this.
Smeaton, it seemed, could barely keep the excitement out of his voice as he read from Logiemuir Council’s official document on child protection.
‘Can I just stop you there?’ said Marty, her dry mouth struggling to form words. ‘I know that document inside out and it has absolutely no relevance to me.’ Marty tried to ignore the black fungus of fear growing in her stomach. This was a stitch-up and she knew who was behind it. ‘This is the McCarthys, isn’t it?’
Without revealing names her boss confirmed her suspicions. She staggered to the chair David pulled out for her and stammered and stuttered an explanation into the phone.
‘Lee-Anne McCarthy is a trouble-maker whose mother does whatever the girl wants.’
‘Marty, I don’t want to hear. It’s not appropriate at this juncture. You’ll get your chance to explain later. To the police.’
‘What? Wait a minute! You can’t involve the police. This is crap. You know I would never harm a pupil. Every single person who has ever met me knows I couldn’t hurt a child.’
‘As I say, you’ll have an opportunity to give your statement to the police.’
‘What happened to “innocent until proven guilty”? You won’t even listen to my side of the story. The true version of events.’
‘Someone from my office will clear your desk. We’ll send in a senior colleague from headquarters to run the school until further notice.’
‘You can’t do this to me, Mr Smeaton,’ said Marty, struggling to keep her voice steady. She wouldn’
t give him the satisfaction of making her cry. ‘I’ve been set up by a girl who didn’t get her own way. And a parent who promised to make me pay.’
‘Perhaps if you had reported the incident to me, I could have pre-empted this?’
‘There was no incident. Nothing to report,’ she shouted, ‘because nothing happened. You know that, Smeaton. You could protect me here. Dismiss this complaint as the nonsense it is.’
‘Sorry, Marty,’ he said, sounding anything but. ‘You know the protocol. I shouldn’t even be talking to you, really. I just felt it would be a kindness to break this news to you personally.’
Even in the thrall of shock Marty could tell Smeaton was enjoying himself.
***
CHAPTER 2
Three months later
November 2017
Marty looked around the café, keen to avoid anyone she knew, then took a seat near the window, where she could see without being seen. The very sight of the council buildings was enough to make her squeamish. She put down her cappuccino, all desire for it gone.
She had been building up to this day for weeks. She had to do something before she went mad, playing and replaying, on a loop in her head, the events that ruined her career. It was like an annoying TV advert breaking into her thoughts every quarter of an hour. Day and night.
Marty had known her professional reputation would never recover from her suspension. She veered wildly between anger, at the injustice of it all, and fear she might be charged, if the girl’s story became more credible than the truth. Every mention in the media of MeToo made her stomach curdle. Her darkest hour came when the story hit the local newspaper and was picked up by the nationals.
There had been no case to answer, of course. No child abuse. Just a teenage girl angry at Marty and determined to get her own back in the most spectacular way she could imagine. And a mother, too stupid and gullible to realise she was being manipulated.