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  UGLY TRUTH

  By Kerry Barnes

  Once Upon A Book

  Copyright © Kerry Barnes 2018

  The right of Kerry Barnes to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance

  with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-9997262-8-7

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2019

  Once Upon A Book

  Dedication

  Nick and Tina Gable

  An inspiration to all families.

  Acknowledgements

  Robert Wood (Epworth Editing) – my editor, who has been on this journey with me from the beginning, who has put heart, soul, and endless hours into helping me to produce three books a year. The way that I write and the fact that I am dyslexic, I feel privileged to have Robert on board to painstakingly correct my work.

  Deryl Easton and The NotRights Book Club for their endless support and kind words of encouragement.

  My family and friends for their patience.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Despite the weather being bitterly cold outside, Valerie Campbell was sweating inside her cottage. Whether it was fear, the menopause, or withdrawals, she couldn’t control the hot flushes; they were making her ill. Looking at the empty bottle of vodka, she was gagging for just one more drink. All she needed was that last glass; perhaps then, she would be able to sleep. The sleeping tablets were all gone, the fridge was empty, and so was the box containing two hundred fags. She had a few thousand pounds in her bank account, but she couldn’t draw any of it out because the police would track her down and pinpoint her to Cornwall. She had to make a plan or she would go around the bend.

  Twisted thoughts swirled around inside her head. Her cat, alone and starving in her London flat, was one, which she felt deeply guilty about, because she loved that damn cat! Then there was that Saskia River cow who was probably laughing at her at this very minute. And, of course, Kelly Raven running all kinds of rackets and right under her nose – the bitch should never have been allowed out of prison. A murderer at fifteen and now stinking rich, with her own firm kissing her arse, it was a bloody liberty. Sampson was another person in her thoughts, who no doubt had taken her job. She was sure he was as bent as a butcher’s hook and making a fucking mockery of the justice system. But the elephant in the room was Cyril Reardon. The man who had escaped her grasp so many bloody times, had probably dismissed her little threatening note as a joke. But she wasn’t joking, and as soon as she was able to, she would just send him another reminder of things to come.

  Her hands began to shake, and her throat tightened. She desperately needed a drink, a cigarette, or just her sanity back. It was no use: she had to get out of the house. Looking over at her car keys, she bit her nails in contemplation; it was a risk because her car was probably on the police radar. I’ll drive to the station and get the fast train to London, she thought. Then it hit her again: she couldn’t purchase the ticket because they would know she was back in the City. There was no way out. She would have to draw the cash from the cash machine in the village and just go.

  She took one last look at her quaint holiday home, her secret hideaway, and left. The cold wind was bitter as she pulled her thin mac tighter around herself. She hoped that the car she’d left inside her garage would soon heat up – either that or the hot flushes would keep her warm.

  For a moment, she thought she saw a few gentle snowflakes floating in front of her. Snow always reminded her of Christmas. The Christmas works dos would be a thing of the past now, though. She eased herself into the driver’s seat and sat alone with just her thoughts to keep her company. Those Christmas parties – had they really been fun? Had anyone actually liked her? Yes, she’d had a drink in her hand and had sat at the table with half the station in the same room. But who’d genuinely made conversation with her? In truth, she knew the answer to that – no one. She’d listened to them and noticed their sneers before they’d turned their backs. But she wasn’t daft – they’d almost certainly been laughing at her.

  She started the engine and turned the heating up to full blast. Silence seemed to ring in her ears. If only she’d the gumption to shut the garage door and leave the car window open, it would be a peaceful end to her nightmare of a life. After all, who would even know where she was? She could remain here, with the car as her coffin for years. Unless, of course, the smell seeped under the garage door and caused concern for any passer-by. But the truth was she didn’t have the guts to take her own life at this time. She bit her lip, angry that she was being so cowardly. That anger sparked a feeling that she couldn’t control – a sense of revenge. If the police wanted to turn a blind eye to the situation and leave firms like Cyril Reardon and Kelly Raven’s to run around earning shed loads of money through everything illegal, she would take matters into her own hands. After all, what did she have to lose now? Her liberty would be stripped from her as soon as she was caught. She knew she would never last ten days in prison, let alone ten years. The inmates would ruin her; she’d probably nicked half of them. She’d never shown them any mercy, and she suspected neither would they.

  She looked at a half-smoked fag butt and snatched it, lighting the end and puffing like an old wino. Then she grappled under the seat to feel for any more bottles of spirits but found nothing. The petrol gauge was half-empty, and so she had to draw money out and to fill up the car if she was to get to London. This was what it was like to be on the run, scared and planning out every move. The sleepless nights had left her exhausted, and without a drink or a tablet, she was climbing the walls. But that anger was sending her mad, and until she satisfied it, she would not rest.

  All she needed was to prove Cyril Reardon, Kelly Raven, and their firm were as bad as she knew they were, and perhaps, all would be forgiven. It was her only option because without it she was looking at a long stretch. They could even try and pin aiding and abetting the murder of Roy’s ex-wife Rose if they wanted to. She hadn’t been the instigator in that, though; it had just been a lucky find. She’d hidden out in the back garden of the pub when all the punters had left, which she’d often done, especially if she got wind of any of the firms having a late one in the Mitcham Mint. Hiding in a small gap behind the trees between the wall and the pub garden allowed her to eavesdrop on everything. She assumed that one day she would hear something that would give her a good lead. But that night, she heard something more disturbing. Roy was dragging a body and talking to someone; yet it wasn’t a living person – it was his dead wife, God forbid. Although it was dark and cold, the light from the kitchen shone just enough for her to see him. She watched for an hour while he dug up the patio and shovelled a mountain of earth before he finally threw her in. She recalled feeling scared to death at first because it was like a scene from a murder film, but then she’d got her thoughts together and decided
to tap him on the shoulder. It was as if he was in a trance until the realisation hit him that she was the superintendent, and he was in shit up to his neck. She had him then and would use him for all she could, and the plan had worked until the stupid bastard decided to grass on her. She hoped he hadn’t divulged everything she had coerced him into doing, especially the issue concerning Adam Carter’s death.

  All those years she’d spent climbing her way to the top and tirelessly bringing people down. But had it been worth it? Well, in one sense it had been an adrenaline boost just watching them squirm when she’d snapped the handcuffs on. If she was true to herself, she loved the fear in their eyes, knowing they would be locked up in a dirty, stinking prison. It was like the notches on a bedpost, except hers weren’t for a night of passion but for the number of arrests. The more she was verbally abused by her targets – the mobs, the firms, and the new modern gangs – the more she revelled in their arrests. It was like an addiction, but when she looked back, perhaps it was a form of revenge for all the times she’d been spat at or verbally insulted. The worst villains were the likes of Cyril Reardon, Eddie Raven, and now Malakai River. They didn’t show fear; in fact, they were mocking her without even speaking. She hated them – all of them – and it was her life’s ambition to take them down, one by one, and by any means. However, her obsession had now landed her on the run herself; clearly, she’d taken her fixation too far.

  Now, when she was faced with the same trepidation and was experiencing similar emotions that were new to her, the tables had turned completely around – as if that could ever be possible. Valerie Jane Campbell, the high-ranking detective superintendent and daughter of Colonel Heath Campbell, was now on the run for God knows what. Her father would be appalled and would probably have locked her up himself for blackening the family name.

  She thought about him now; and about how she’d desperately tried to win over his affections, by climbing the career ladder and proudly announcing her new title at every opportunity. He hadn’t cared, though; he’d only ever been proud of his son, her brother. She was no competition. All her younger life, he’d been the blue-eyed boy, the one in the photos with her father’s arm around his shoulders holding up a medal. It was only a silver medal on sports day, for fuck’s sake. She’d been in the background holding the gold, but no fuss was made of her. She’d hated Lester, with a passion. It should’ve been her getting the attention, but how could it? Her father must have despised all women. Her mother had played away from home – with some flash villain from the East End. Although her father remained married to her mother, there was always that rift in the family, because it certainly wasn’t the done thing to get divorced – certainly not in the type of high-class family she’d been born into.

  Taking down the hard-core villains was really her way of smashing down the walls between the man she loved – Heath Campbell – and herself.

  She hoped that one day she could name the one who’d had an affair with her mother and broken her father’s heart. In which case, her father would take her in his arms and be proud that she’d finally captured the brute, and so all would be forgiven. An unexpected tear trickled down her cheek. Instantly, she roughly wiped it away; crying was a useless emotion. If only her mother would admit the truth, it would save her father a lot of heartache. Her father, the well-respected Colonel, had such an air of authority that so many people looked up to him, including herself. She didn’t have the same respect for her mother, Gwynneth, though. As far as she was concerned, Gwynneth, with her common ways, was just a submissive, pathetic thorn in their side.

  If her father knew now that she was wanted by her own police force, he would wash his hands of her once and for all. She imagined him saying those gut-wrenching words ‘You see, you are your mother’s daughter all right!’

  She shuddered and swallowed hard. Clutching the steering wheel, while in frustration, she repeatedly smashed her head against it. The loud beeping noise from her head bashing the horn made her jump. Brought out of her despair, she began shaking all over. It was time to get away. That sound was so loud against the backdrop of pure silence that it sobered her up enough for her to put the car into gear. Suddenly, her heart was in her mouth. There, in the distance, she could see numerous flashing blue lights. Spurred into action, she tore out of the garage and headed to the nearest petrol station. She decided she had no choice but to fill up with fuel and get out of there. She couldn’t hang about in the hope they were coming for someone else. As she drove over the hill and down to the dense tree-covered lane, she gasped, remembering she’d left her notebook, her plans, and her ultimate goals behind in the cottage. However, she couldn’t turn back, not with the amount of police vehicles and meat wagons she’d spotted. She could only assume they were on their way to her cottage. She wasn’t stupid. It would only be a matter of time before they discovered her hideaway and it looked like they had. She had to keep going and make a plan along the way. After all, she’d a few favours to call in.

  As the snow fell heavily, now, she realised that driving all the way to London would have to be done on the main road, leaving her open to being spotted on any ANPR cameras. No. She had to draw out the cash, dump her car, and head for the station. However, with no friends, finding a place to stay would be tricky. And staying in a hotel would use up all her money. One thing she did have on her side was the fact that the Commissioner hadn’t made public that there was a warrant out for her arrest. So there was no media coverage. She still had her warrant card, and she could use it to get what she needed – another car, a weapon – if, of course, she could make it back to London without being captured.

  The snow was now turning into a blizzard.

  ‘Bloody winter.’ She cursed. But then, she had a thought, and her thin, tight lips turned into a wide smile. The holiday camps would be shut for winter, and she knew just the place. It was out of the way and not manned during the winter months – perfect.

  She could put her plot into place, as long as she could just control her hot sweats with a swig of vodka.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Bleedin’ ’ell, Alex, you must be getting a derby on ya,’ chuckled Joe, as his brother tried to squeeze past the small area behind the bar.

  Alex laughed. ‘This ain’t no beer belly, it’s muscle. I’m off to the bank. It’s quiet on a Wednesday. Can you change the barrels and wash the pipes through? I won’t have time before the lunch opening.’

  ‘Will do,’ replied Joe, as he dried the last of the pint glasses. He smiled as he watched his brother tilt his head to get through the original old pub door. Alex was a big man, much like himself, and the small country pub with all its original character made them both appear like giants in comparison. Holding the tea towel in his hand, he glanced over at the tables. The bright morning sun that shone through the windows had highlighted the fact that the tables needed a serious clean. Dismissing the idea, he wandered from behind the bar, and with a mug of coffee at the ready, he stared at the newspaper. ‘Bloody politics.’ He turned to the next page to find much the same and wondered if cleaning the tables would be more appealing.

  Just as he was about to go back upstairs, the door opened abruptly. Joe instantly jumped to his feet and spun around, only to find his daughter Stephanie storm in. Relieved, he felt his nerves settle. However, his back was up. She always had that effect on him. And it was not just on him but on his brother as well. Her whole attitude stank. Even the way she strutted around in her designer rig-outs driving her flash motor and parading her vicious mutt with its fancy diamond collar irritated him. Slapping her expensive bag on the counter, she climbed onto a bar stool and pouted like a fish.

  Joe Raven looked at his daughter the way he’d always done – with a niggling doubt. Her long black hair and bright green eyes would make any man look twice. Joe recognised that she was a beautiful-looking woman, but her cold expression was ugly, and at times, it made his stomach churn. As much as he loved her, he didn’t like her.

  If
only she’d looked like him, with pale skin and dark curly hair, but she didn’t. She reminded him so much of his dead sister Toni; and what was worse – far worse – she was his dead brother Eddie’s double. For years, he’d tried to believe his wife when she’d said that his daughter had taken on his mother’s Spanish genes, whereas Alex and himself had taken after their Irish father’s side of the family. But the problem was that in the back of his mind, he had a sick notion she wasn’t his child. Although there could be no doubt that Eddie was a rogue, Joe had tried to believe that Eddie wouldn’t have stooped to the pits of degradation by shagging his wife. It seemed, on the face of it, such a laughable notion.

  But, then, realistically, that idea wasn’t so preposterous: it should never have surprised him that Eddie had been capable of charming the knickers off any bird, and he had . . . often.

  ‘So, Stephanie, what brings you here today?’

  Stephanie with a face like a smacked arse stared at her long red nails and rolled her eyes. ‘Ya know what, Dad? Whenever I come to see ya, all you do is ask that question, and ya know what? I sometimes wonder that myself. But can’t a girl see her ol’ man without twenty questions?’

  Joe remained poker-faced, still waiting for an answer. Stephanie was never the type for a social visit; she was thoroughly selfish and only thought about how she could earn a buck or take it; either way, though, the girl was a money-grabbing cow. He couldn’t trust her – ever – just like he’d never trusted Eddie.