Retribution Song (DCI Suzanna McLeod Book 5), page 1
Harry Navinski
Retribution Song
Dark motives. Shocking secrets. A brilliant detective with Holmes in her blood.
Copyright © 2025 by Harry Navinski
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harry Navinski asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Dedicated to all who have endured abuse by those in power, and to the loved ones left to seek justice.
Contents
Retribution Song
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
Ratings and Reviews
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Harry Navinski
Retribution Song
By Harry Navinski
Chapter 1
11:00 am Tuesday 17th May 2016
Mitch Hindley stepped out through the patio doors and wandered alongside the pool that beckoned anyone hardy enough to dive into its chilly depths. The May sun was high in the blue sky and he felt its radiance through his white cotton shirt. But a northeasterly breeze sent a shiver up his bronzed arms.
The band and production team were on his heels, following him out onto the terrace, weaving around the empty sun loungers, untouched since last summer.
* * *
The hunter’s brow furrowed. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he zeroed in on the distant figure. The binoculars sharpened the image, but certainty eluded him. The task was too important for a ten percent risk of failure. He needed to be certain. Beyond doubt.
* * *
The guests meandering around the pool radiated festive energy. Champagne flutes sparkled in their hands, while a waitress wove through the crowd with a tray of delicate canapés. One man playfully pushed a woman towards the water, then held her in check. She looked shocked, then annoyed at the young man’s antics. He guffawed. Laughter rippled through the other guests.
“I love this job,” Mitch said silently to himself. “Mixing with youthful talent keeps me young. Especially the girls. What was it Groucho Marx said? You’re only as old as the woman you feel.”
Today was a celebration. The band’s album had been completed – laid down digitally, as was the way these days. Mitch missed the whir of multi-track reel-to-reel tape recorders, their shiny surfaces capturing the sound waves travelling their length. But times move on, and he knew that nostalgic indulgences were a costly luxury.
Something caught Mitch’s attention. A flock of birds had risen from the trees on the hill. I wonder what disturbed them? he thought as he took a sip of champagne, his eyes focused on the copse. A strange hush fell over the terrace, Mitch’s mind blocking out the youngsters’ laughter. He could sense a dark force hiding in the distant trees.
* * *
The hunter wiped away the sweat as it trickled down towards his nose. He couldn’t allow it to distract him at the crucial time or the sweat to land in the undergrowth and leave his DNA. The target turned and peered in his direction, as if staring him down, challenging him to look away. The hunter’s slight uncertainty dissolved. This was his man. Now it was action time.
He had already breached a round – the weapon cocked and ready. He released the safety catch, breathed in, then half out, held his breath, slowed his heart, and gently squeezed the trigger.
The rifle thumped into his shoulder as the round shot up the barrel and raced towards its target. The hunter’s eye remained focussed to verify the hit. He’d always ensured his success before lowering his rifle – would leave nothing to chance. And this hit was special.
* * *
The crack of the shot reached the party just after their host’s head exploded and Mitch flew backwards to the ground, his brains spewing in an arc in line with the exiting bullet. Mayhem ensued. Kirsty, the band’s singer, screamed as the mess from his skull sprayed across her blouse and splattered her face. The others were speechless, open-mouthed. Shocked. None of them had ever witnessed death this sudden, this violent.
Inside the house, Ryan Tennent heard the crack of the rifle and the screams of the guests. Shock hit him like a charging elephant. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream, energising his reaction. He took off towards the pool where he knew the party would be, dodging furniture and worried-looking domestic staff.
As Ryan emerged onto the patio at a run, his worst thoughts were realised. His employer’s mutilated body lay on the ground, most of his skull missing and a pool of blood expanding from where his scalp should have been. A wave of nausea threatened to overtake him as it had many times on the battlefield. He shoved it down, focusing instead on the living. He couldn’t afford to freeze – not now. Not ever, in this role.
He snapped into action, his eyes scanning the scene as he analysed the risk. One of the young men danced on the spot, flapping his arms like a chicken, his face red, his eyes popping out of his head.
A two-and-a-half-metre-high wall surrounded the pool area. Ryan could see no threat from within those walls. His instinct and previous army training drove his actions, shouting at the group to get down. The shooter might be a madman, out for some sport.
Some guests still stood as statues. He didn’t want their lives on his conscience as well. He shouted again, “Get down!”
“What the hell is happening?” a man shouted, his voice cracking.
“Get down! NOW!” Ryan barked, cutting through the chaos. “Everyone, hit the ground!”
A young woman by the pool shrieked, her hands clutching her face. One man remained frozen, his eyes locked on the body, while another dragged Kirsty to the ground – her beautiful singing voice now wailing like a banshee.
Many had failed to respond to the command and remained targets waiting to be picked off. Ryan screamed a repeated command, “GET THE FUCK DOWN!” The expletive seemed to penetrate more minds, most dropping to the ground. But the chicken man continued to flap.
Ryan raced across the patio and rugby-tackled the man to the ground, then stayed down, scanning the pool area. Were they all out of harm’s way now? He spotted someone at the patio door, peering out at the crazy scene. He shouted again. “Get back inside. There’s a shooter out there somewhere.”
* * *
With the taste of cordite on his tongue, the hunter picked up the hot shell case. He slipped it into his pocket, satisfied he’d hit his target, then packed the weapon into a fishing rod bag. He combed the area with his gloved fingers, spreading the foliage and spoiling the impressions made by his body. After donning his cap adorned with fishing flies, the hunter strolled back to the road, where he’d left his Land Rover.
As he drove away, he let his pride show itself in a smile of satisfaction. He was as good as he’d ever been, despite being past his supposed prime. He’d fulfilled his mission. Completed the task. Taken out the man who had caused so much pain and misery for others. Mitch Hindley would never again cause others pain.
Job done!
* * *
Seconds passed. Then minutes. Sobbing and retching broke the silence. Ryan rose, then zigzagged his way back to the house at a sprint until he was behind cover again. He found a spot in the room where he could see without being seen. His eyes shifted upwards, above and beyond the wall, into the distance.
The nearest cover to shoot from within his field of view was over a kilometre away. He calculated the angles. The high wall offered some protection, but not enough if the shooter adjusted his position. He scanned the treeline, every shadow a potential threat.
Where had the shot come from? Might there be a glint of light reflecting from the shooter’s weapon? He doubted it. Anyone who could hit the centre of a twenty-centimetre target at over one thousand metres would be a professional.
Ryan’s mind raced through scenarios. If the shooter had been looking for more targets, he could have taken a few out before they went to ground. He scanned the horizon again, his heart hammering. Could the sniper still be there, waiting? Each second dragged, the weight of indecision pressing harder. He needed to act. To get them inside. Now!
Ryan moved back to the patio more confident of his assessment but still cautious. “Get inside. All of you. And keep away from the windows,” he commanded, his voice full of urgency. Reaching for his phone, he dialled 999. As he waited for the operator, his eyes never left the treeline, the weight of the moment pressing on his chest. Hopefully, whoever had pulled the trigger had already left, but their shadow lingered.
Chapter 2
“Emergency Services. Which service do you require?”
“Police. There’s been a shooting,” Ryan responded. “My principal has been killed.”
“Sorry. Your principal?” The emergency services operative had evidently never heard of the term.
He swallowed hard, then repeated himself, “My principle, the man I was supposed to be protecting. I’m a close protection officer.” The weight of failure settled in his gut, heavy as stone. His mind flipped to what impact this would have on his life and career. Who would employ him for personal security now?
“Your name, please, sir?”
His heart pounded in his chest as he responded. “Tennent. Ryan Tennent.”
“Where did the shooting take place, Mr Tennent? We need the address.”
“Kirkness Castle, near Livingston. I don’t know the post code.”
“Okay, Mr Tennent, the police are on the way. Stay on the line, please. We need to maintain contact until the officers are on scene.”
He felt frustrated by being kept on the line. His pulse still raced with adrenaline. He needed to act – anything to stop the helplessness.
“Sorry. I need to get back to the guests and take control. Here’s the housekeeper, Mrs Billingham.” Ryan tossed the phone to the housekeeper before the operator had time to respond.
The phone nearly slipped from Mrs Billingham’s fingers as she caught the device. She checked the screen - still connected. “Hello,” she said, her voice quavering. “This is Mrs Billingham…”
Ryan marched through to the drawing room. His eyes swept the room. Windows clear. Staff huddled together. A maid reached for Kirsty, dabbing at the blood on her pale face. He shouted at the maid. “Don’t do that. The police will be here soon. They’ll need to take evidence.”
Shocked by the command, the maid’s hand froze in mid-air. “Sorry, luv,” she said to Kirsty.
“Get it off me,” Kirsty screamed. “It’s Mitch’s brains! Get it off!” She snatched the napkin from the maid’s hand and wiped her face with frantic desperation – as if scrubbing death itself off her skin.
Ryan turned away from Kirsty, letting her rub away the human detritus. He daren’t push it any further.
Focus, Ryan. Keep them safe. Keep yourself together, he silently told himself.
* * *
The call came into CID just as Angus Watson bit into his ham and cheese sandwich. Owen took the call, noted down some details, then staring at his DI, arched an eyebrow to indicate the need for his urgent attention.
“What is it, Owen?” Angus asked, before taking a second bite of his sandwich.
“A murder. Out Livingston way. Big house. The owner apparently shot from outside the grounds. A sniper!”
Angus swallowed the last of his first sandwich and closed the lid on his box. “Right, Owen, let’s go then. You drive. I take it that Bravo of yours is working okay at the moment!”
Owen had mixed feelings about driving. Normally, he’d have been happy to drive rather than be a passenger, but his stomach was rumbling and his lunch remained sealed in its container. He’d not get to eat for a while yet, but he grabbed it anyway just in case an opportunity arose. He brushed his silky brown hair out of his eyes with his hand before replying. “Aye. No bother. It’s fine. The car’s not played up since I got it’s heater fixed back in January.”
“Wow! A whole three months without a fault. Top car!” Angus grinned at Owen as they marched out of the now empty office.
Owen rolled his eyes as he followed his boss out of the room.
Angus stopped off at Superintendent Milne’s office to let him know where they were going and why. He would normally report directly to DCI McLeod but she was away in Dumfriesshire tidying up some paperwork from a previous case she’d overseen.
Owen’s 9-year-old Fiat had seen better days. Its original pillar box red paintwork had evolved into a sheen-less dull paprika. The car started without hesitation though and the two officers left the Fettes Avenue station bound westerly for Livingston.
As they weaved their way through Edinburgh’s crawling traffic, Angus rang Sergeant Caitlin Findlay to let her know where they were. Call completed, Angus chatted to Owen as he navigated his way out of the city. “A sniper, you said. Who called it in?”
“The victim’s head of security. I bet he’s worried about his future, now!”
“I dare say he is. Poor bugger.” Angus paused. “Whenever there’s a disaster people look to blame someone, and it’s usually the head that rolls.”
* * *
Ryan heard police sirens in the distance, growing in volume by the second. His responsibilities would soon end. He would become just another witness, his role in providing security for his principal cast into history.
He worried about the impact this shooting would have on his life. His relationship with his wife, Kimberly, was already fragile, with frequent arguments the norm. Without a job and regular income, the relationship may well fail. Whoever had done this had taken more than one life; they’d perhaps stolen his too.
Catching a reflection of blue lights off the wall, Ryan went to meet the officers at the door. Uniformed constables emerged from the first police car and marched towards him, their car doors left gaping, as if letting the tension escape. He stepped forward. “I’m Ryan Tennent, Head of Security. I called it in.”
The officers’ faces seemed to reflect his self-condemnation. Obviously, he had failed. But their damming expressions were momentary. The first officer spoke. “I’m Constable Walker. This is PC Swain. We’ll need to secure the crime scene.”
“I’ve had everyone move into the house away from where he was shot. The patio area is clear. I’ll show you.” He turned on his heels and led the way through the house, past the still shocked guests and staff to the patio door beyond which Mitch Hindley’s body could be seen.
PC Walker turned to Tennent and spoke. “I’ll need you to keep everyone in the house. No one’s to leave. My colleagues will soon be here to take statements.”
As he said that, two more PCs entered the room. He held up an imaginary notepad and pretended to scribble on it, like silently asking a waiter for the bill. The officers nodded and drew out their notebooks to start gathering information.
The constable turned to Tennent again. “Is there any other way into this pool area?”
“Yes. It can be accessed around the side of the building but everyone’s inside, so you won’t have to worry about that.” As he finished speaking, a man appeared from around the house’s corner, wheeling a barrow with garden tools and compost. Ryan realised he’d spoken too soon. He’d forgotten about the gardener.
PC Walker’s eyes flicked across Ryan’s face, registering the Head of Security’s mistake. He quickly turned towards the gardener and raised his voice. “Hold it right there, sir. Don’t take another step. This is a crime scene. Turn around and head to the front door. I’ll meet you there.”
The gardener paused, his eyes darting between the body and the officers. For a moment, Walker thought he might say something, but instead, the man spun the barrow around and walked away, shoulders tense.
Walker had a quick word with his colleague, leaving him to guard the door onto the patio, then strode back through the house to speak with the gardener. As he approached the front door, a uniformed sergeant marched into the hall. “Ah! Walker. Give me the lowdown on the shooting. I’ll take over now.”
