Violation An Adam Black thriller Karl Hill Copyright © 2020 Karl Hill The right of Karl Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books. 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 production, 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. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN 978-1-913419-87-5 Contents Love crime, thriller and mystery books? Also by Karl Hill 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 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 A note from the publisher Love crime, thriller and mystery books? You will also enjoy: Love crime, thriller and mystery books? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Also by Karl Hill Unleashed Prologue 1960. Torburn House. Residential Children’s Home, Dundee. The building was old. A rambling Victorian school built of stone the colour of mud. Peaked grey slate roof. A place dark and sombre. Great high ceilings. Bare white walls. Windows which were never opened. Lighting from glass sconces positioned high up. They flickered sometimes, when there was a storm. The two boys, who seemed inseparable, were always cold. They were given matching blue pullovers, but the cloth was thin and itched the skin. All the boys wore the same. Blue pullovers, blue shorts, blue socks. Two hundred uniforms. Twenty beds in each dormitory. Ten dormitories. They were playing together, just the two of them. They had been told to stay behind. They played on the wooden floorboards, cross-legged, facing each other. They could feel the draught against their bare knees. One was ten, the other eight. Between them were toy soldiers. Medieval warriors, with white armour, clutching tiny swords and shields. And a little wooden catapult contraption. They played quietly, knocking soldiers down, picking them up, arranging them in a careful display, whispering to each other. Communication was always by a whisper. They were too frightened to talk any louder. Fear dominated every second of their existence. Suddenly, the door at the end of the room opened. The boys’ heads jerked round, then back to the floor. If you didn’t look at them, didn’t make eye contact, then you weren’t chosen. Sometimes. Three men approached. Footsteps creaked on the wooden floor. Heavy black shoes, polished and gleaming in the half light. Neither boy looked up. The three men stood over them. Nothing was said. Eventually one spoke, a rich, deep voice. A voice they knew well. “Hello, boys.” The boys did not reply. “Shy.” Laughter. Another man got down on his knees, so he was almost level. “These look fantastic.” He picked up one of the toy soldiers. “Marvellous detail.” He raised it up to show the other men. “Do you know what these soldiers are?” Neither boy lifted his head. “You can tell by the red cross on their chests. They were called Crusaders. They fought for God.” He replaced the soldier back carefully to where he’d found it. “I love your battle formations,” he continued. “Wouldn’t like to meet either of you in a fight, for sure.” He turned to one of them, the younger one. “Have you got a favourite?” The boy reached over, and picked one up. “Can I see?” He handed it to him. The man held it up, turning it delicately in his fingers, admiring it in the amber glow of the lighting above. “Now he is special. He must be a Lord or a King. He looks very regal. He’s wearing a fancy robe. He must be their leader. Does he have a name?” The boy looked up at the man, eyes wide. He darted a glance to one of the other men, the one who had spoken initially, seeking approval. The man gave a nod – yes, you’re allowed to talk. “The Grey Prince.” His voice was small in that vast place. “I like it. The Grey Prince. Suits him.” He gave it back, then stood. Both boys sat, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the bare wooden floor, staring at nothing. Waiting. “We’ll play our game, shall we,” spoke the one with the rich, deep voice. “Eeny, meeny, miney, moe…” The voice continued, on and on, smooth and flowing, until it reached the end of the rhyme. “Well, well,” said the other man who had spoken. “Looks like our little Grey Prince is the lucky winner.” Laughter again, three deep voices echoing up into the high ceiling. “Stand up, please, Grey Prince.” The boy got to his feet, head down, eyes never leaving the floor. One of the men took the boy by the hand, and led him from the room, followed by the other two. The boy remaining didn’t move until they’d left. His shoulders trembled, as he started to cry small, soft tears. He had no choice but to cry quietly, in case his worst dread was realised. That they return. He studied the array of toy soldiers on the floor before him. He picked up his friend’s favourite, and put it in his trouser pocket. He hadn’t realised it had a name. Now he knew. The Grey Prince. 1 Life is not designed to be fair. It’s designed to be
