Hunter Hunted by Jack Gatland (best romantic books to read .TXT) 📕

‘Dad,’ she said, her voice worried. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, sweetheart,’ he replied, looking around as he spoke. ‘Is your mum there? It’s important,’

There was a pause, and then Lizzie’s voice came onto the line. ‘Where are you?’ she asked as the station announcer went off, giving out the platform and time of the next train to Ipswich.

‘Look, I can’t explain anything, but you have to trust me,’ Declan replied. ‘You’re going to hear some bad things. Untrue bad things. I’m being framed and I’m on the run.’

‘This isn’t a joke, is it?’ Lizzie said. ‘I saw about Alex Monroe. Is this to do with that?’

‘Partly,’ Declan replied cautiously. ‘I can’t really talk. I’m on my way to Whitby. Pack some things and get out of there with Jess.’

‘I’ll go to—‘

‘Don’t tell me where you’re going!’ Declan exclaimed. ‘They might hear this. People died today because of them.’

‘Did they take Jessica’s phone?’ Now Lizzie’s voice was darkening with anger.

‘Yeah,’ Declan looked around again, worrying that he’d spent too long on here already. ‘Get out, lie low. Tell Jess I love her lots, and I’m sorry.’

Declan placed the phone back on the cradle, quickly continuing through the crowd to one of the self-service ticket machines. Here, he bought two tickets; the first, a London Travelcard was bought with cash, while the second, an open return to Whitby was paid for with his card. Now moving into the middle of the concourse, Declan checked up at the giant screens that displayed train arrivals and departures. The next train to Whitby wasn’t showing, so Declan walked over to a blue jacketed station official, a young man with floppy blond hair who leaned against a wall.

‘Excuse me,’ Declan said as the blond man sprung to life. ‘How do I get to Whitby?’

The station officer looked up at the giant screens above them.

‘You’re cutting it close,’ he said as he looked at his watch. It matched the screen above, stating that it was twenty past two. ‘Catch the two thirty to Northallerton, yeah? Then change to Thornaby, and there you get a third train to Whitby. I hope you’ve got a book though as it’s a bloody long journey.’

Declan thanked the official and ran for the platform. He needed to not only catch the train, but fulfil other criteria. Sliding his ticket into the machine, he made his way to the train platform, noting that the tracks the other side were empty with a queue of people already waiting for whatever train was arriving. Entering the carriage through the sliding doors, he made his way up it, nodding to people as he passed, knocking a couple accidentally with the rucksack and apologising. Basically, he did everything that a man running from the police and trying to keep a low profile shouldn’t do.

At the end of the carriage was an empty toilet. Sliding in, Declan locked the door behind him, opening up the rucksack. Now time was of the essence, as he needed to be off the train before it left, and according to his watch he had less than five minutes.

Quickly and carefully he pulled off his jacket and suit, keeping his shirt on as he removed everything from the pockets. This done, he now pulled on the black jogging bottoms and zip hoodie, zipping it up over the shirt, and letting the hood flop over the collar of the brown suede bomber jacket as he pulled it on. He quickly placed his personal items into the grey backpack that now rested on his shoulder, pulled on his shoes and the baseball cap, and frantically pushed his old clothes into the rucksack, closing it up. Then, with the black-framed glasses now on, he exited the toilet, placed the rucksack onto the luggage rack and continued down the carriage. Now he was a completely different man; the lenses in the glasses were clear, but distorted his face, the cap hiding his hair. As a train pulled up on the other platform, Declan exited his train, walking across to the other side and, as the travellers now at their last destination emerged from the carriages, he joined them in walking back to the barriers. In the rush of commuters, he slid his Whitby return ticket into the machine, passing through as the gates opened. Nobody would realise that he had used it, and only when they found the rucksack would they learn that he’d changed his identity.

And by then he’d be far away.

As he walked back through the concourse, heading towards Kings Cross Underground Station, he saw four police cars pulling up outside, the sirens flashing as officers emerged, running towards the concourse. He felt a sudden pang of fear at this. How had they found him so quickly? However, he forced himself to slow, to move to the side as they passed him; nothing more than a curious onlooker. They ran for the platforms, but looking at his watch Declan knew they were too late to catch the train. And, if he was correct, the first stop would be Stevenage, over half an hour’s journey away. Even if they stopped the train and started a search through the carriages, it would be about an hour from now before people realised that Declan wasn’t there. And by then, he’d be on another train, heading in the other direction.

Using the Travelcard, Declan caught a Circle Line train to Paddington where he found another self-service ticket machine and, using almost the last of his cash, he bought an open return to Maidenhead. Running for this train, he almost missed it, clambering in as the doors beeped and closed.

Now on a seat beside the window, Declan stared out of the window as the train emerged out of the station, following the tracks westward as they took him to safety. He knew he was taking a risk here; the whole point of the subterfuge was to give him time to escape, to become a ghost. But he was heading