Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (2 page)

DAY ONE OF THE INVESTIGATION:

24th August 2008.

North Yorkshire:

Tentatively Hunter Kerr stepped towards the edge of the Cowbar cliff top. Only yards below seagulls screeched and swooped, their fleeting shapes silhouetted white against the village of Staithes below, which was still cloaked in early morning shadow. Glancing across the harbour the bright yellow sun was beginning to appear above the grey rock face of the Nab opposite; an orange glow blurred the top of the hill.

Raising his digital camera he clicked off a couple of frames and stepped back over the gorse to where his painting easel had been set up some twenty minutes beforehand. Screwing his steel blue eyes to slits he picked out the shapes in front of him and with brush in hand he began to mix the tones in the oil paint spread out over his palette. He knew from his many previous painting ventures to this tiny ancient fishing village that he would only have another thirty minutes to capture the intensely bright first light punching its way through the cobbled streets and bouncing across the haphazard pantile roofs of the crop of old white-washed cottages, before the effect disappeared and the blueness of the day took over.

As he settled into his painting, occasionally looking out over the tranquil scene of old fisherman’s cottages sloping towards to the beck that fed the North Sea, Hunter swore he could feel the stress and tension of the last few weeks easing from his body.

Scrubbing in the large blocks of colour onto his canvas board and feeling the breeze brushing across his unshaven face at that moment he realised how glad he was at having been persuaded by his wife Beth, to take time off this weekend to spend some rare quality time with her and their two sons: At the last moment they had asked his mum and dad to join them in their rented cottage. When they had left home the day before yesterday he had selfishly double-checked he had packed his painting gear because he very rarely got the opportunity to paint these days, what with juggling his career and the needs of his family.

When he had seen the weather forecast last night he knew that this morning would be an ideal opportunity to fire off a small oil sketch.

He had managed to sneak out at dawn without disturbing them and as he worked his brushes across the stained canvas the vision of them all still tucked up in their beds, entered his head causing him to smile to himself.

He thought about work as well. He had left his team with a list of tasks, though he knew deep down they didn’t need them; the squad were more than capable of finishing off the case they had just been working on so intensely over the past five weeks.

He had left his partner DC Grace Marshall in charge, and he could visualise her now, mothering the team in her own inimitable way; organising the clearing of the incident room: stacking the house-to-house documentation, categorising witness statement papers, sealing the hundreds of exhibits, and storing all the gory photographs into box files ready for the Coroner’s Court inquest.

That last case had been the most intense and testing investigation he had ever been involved in. Not just since his appointment as Detective Sergeant into Barnwell Major Investigation Team but throughout his fourteen years as a detective.

When he had left the office two days ago, for this well earned break, they had removed the forensic tent from the back of the serial killer’s home after excavating the body of his fourth victim found in the garden.

The week previous to that the remains of two more of his teenage girl victims had been unearthed from shallow graves at an old colliery site.

They had known the names and ages of all of the girls who had suffered at his hands even before they had exhumed their remains; he had left behind such detailed accounts of every murder.

The killing spree of the now infamous ‘Dearne Vally Demon,’ as the press had so candidly dubbed him, had shocked them all and he knew would have lasting repercussions.

More so because so many revelations had come to light during the enquiry, some of which had not only involved colleagues, but unwittingly himself as well, and had caused him much personal angst over the last few weeks.

The phrase ‘tangled web’ came to mind as he fought once again to push the thoughts of the case out of his consciousness. He felt a chill shoot down his spine and shuddered.

Hunter returned his gaze to the view across the beck, spinning away from his daydream, noticing that the morning light had become less sharp over the landscape. He realised that in another ten minutes the artistic quality of the atmosphere would be gone. He returned to his sketch.

A few more brush strokes,
and I’ll call it a day and get back for breakfast.

Ten minutes later, setting down his brushes, he smoothed his hands into the base of his spine and eased himself upright, teasing the tension out from his vertebrae and stretching himself up to his full six-foot-one. He took another look at his subject, raising his camera to capture one last image to use as reference; to enable him to finish the painting when he got another suitable moment back home, and that was when he spotted his father leaning against the railings, overlooking the beach.

Dad’s up early as well.

He clicked off a frame. As he did so he couldn’t help but notice a fleeting movement to one side of the Cod and Lobster pub. He was sure he’d seen a figure dart into the shadows. He zoomed in his lens as far as it would go forcing the focus of the camera towards the side entrance of the pub where he had last seen motion.

He’d been right. There was someone, slinking against the wall, craning his head around, staring in the direction of his father. His policeman’s sixth sense was telling him that something wasn’t right. He snapped off another frame but the zoom was at its maximum and the image was blurred. He could make out it was a guy with a bald or shaven head who appeared to be both squat and stocky.

He returned his gaze back to his father, still leaning on the metal railings, one foot resting on the bottom bar, staring out across the harbour. He could tell from his relaxed posture that he was unaware of the man hiding behind the wall only ten yards away. Hunter dug out his mobile from his jeans pocket and flipped up the screen.

Damn,
he cursed to himself,
no signal
. He’d forgotten, the times he had been here he had never been able to get a signal.

He moved further to the edge of the Cowbar deciding to shout, hoping his father would be able to hear, and then he saw his dad spin around; the bald headed man had emerged from the shadows and was striding purposefully in his direction. The stranger halted just feet away and thrust out a hand, jabbing a finger inches from his dad’s face. Although Hunter couldn’t hear their body language was telling him that
this was not friendly banter. He raised his camera again; shot off a succession of quick frames, not checking if the images were good or not. That was when he caught the quick movement of his father, slapping away the prodding hand and slamming his palm into the chest of the uninvited guest. He dumped the man onto his backside and then leaned over him, spearing his own finger, only a foot from the man’s face. Hunter could see there was a frank exchange of words between them, and then as quickly as it started it was all over. His father spun back around and marched off in the direction of their rented cottage.

The bald headed man picked himself up and dusted down his knees, reached into his pocket and took out his mobile phone. Seconds later in obvious disgust he pushed it away again.

“He can’t get a signal either,” Hunter muttered to himself.

Then as the man turned Hunter raised his camera again, quickly adjusted the zoom and rattled off several more frames, before the stranger disappeared from view.

Hands on hips, poised at the edge of the cliff, Hunter spent several more minutes scouring the cobbled High Street, straining his eyes into the narrow alleyways of the thrown together houses but he couldn’t pick up the sight of either his father or the incomer.

I need to get back and make sure everything’s OK.

With a sense of urgency he threw together his things.

* * * * *

Half-jogging, half-marching, breathing heavily, Hunter mounted the steep incline out of the old village and up towards the newer part of Staithes where their rented cottage was.

All the while he’d been keeping a watch for the bald headed man but the only people he had come across were the fishermen preparing their boats as he strode across the bridge overlooking the beck, and as he neared the top of the hill he could make out his father approximately a hundred yards ahead. He was ambling along, hands thrust deep in pocket
s
, as if nothing had happened.

Hunter took a deep breath and shouted
after him. His dad stopped, turned around and waited for him to catch up.

By the time Hunter had reached him he was gulping for air and beads of sweat were trickling from his hairline down the sides of his face, tickling his neck.

“I thought you were supposed to be fit son,” his father said sarcastically in his strong Glaswegian accent, pointing to the glistening sweat on his son’s brow.

Hunter set down his box easel and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, flicking the residue onto the footpath.

“I am. It’s that bloody hill, it’s a killer.” He took in several deep breaths. “I’ve been trying to catch you up to see what that was all about.”

“What was all about?” replied his father, blandly.

“You know what I’m on about. Don’t give me the all innocent. That argument you’ve just had with that bald-headed guy.”

“That wasn’t an argument. Just a case of mistaken identity. He thought I was someone else.”

“You don’t dump someone on their arse because of a case of mistaken identity.”

His father’s face flushed. “Leave it son, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“What do you mean it’s nothing to do with me?  My dad smacking someone is nothing to do with me?  I think so.”

His father held up a hand giving him the stop signal. “No you don’t think so at all. That was my business down there. I said leave it and I mean leave it.” He spun on his heels and marched away.

* * * * *

The mild August evening was giving way to a sheet of fine drizzle. It peppered the windscreen of Hunter’s Audi,
obscuring the view of the main road through Sleights village. Hunter flicked on the wipers and the blades swished across, clearing the screen. As he began the steep incline up towards Blue Bank he could already see that his father’s car in front was almost at the top.

Hunter dropped down a gear, squeezed the accelerator and sped towards the steep summit.

Since they had set off from the cottage Hunter had been at odds with himself and Beth had sensed it, even checking to see if anything was wrong. He’d shrugged it off, telling her he was back to thinking about work. The fact was he couldn’t get out of his mind the episode he had seen earlier involving his dad and the bald headed stranger. What had made it worse was that his father had initially lied to him about the matter and then dismissed him when he had tried to probe deeper. He’d tried to catch his attention for the most part of the day but his dad had deliberately avoided eye-contact.

Something was not right, but he couldn’t think what. He thought he knew his father, but it felt recently as though he didn’t know him at all. All these years and the only time he had seen him lose his temper was several weeks ago when his dad had come to his aid when he was getting a good hiding from three family members of someone he had just put into prison. In fact on that occasion he remembered having to drag his dad away before he did one of the guys some really serious injury such was the viciousness of his onslaught.

This recent incident had brought all that flashing back and was unsettling him again. He clutched the steering wheel tighter willing his Audi faster up the hill. Upon cresting the brow of Blue Bank he eased off the accelerator and began cruising along the moorland road that passed through ‘Heartbeat’ country. Thirty yards in front it looked from the movement of nodding heads as though his parents were chatting happily. He wondered if his mum, like Beth, had sensed something was not quite right.

Because his concentration had been elsewhere he never saw the silver BMW until it shot past, so close that it rocked his car, almost catching the wing mirror.

For a split-second he lost control of the car, veering towards the grass verge, which he quickly corrected by braking sharply and swinging back into a straight line.

“The bloody idiot!” Hunter shouted
, halting his tirade, remembering that Jonathan and Daniel, his two young sons, were in the back.

It appeared to him
that the recklessly speeding BMW was on a collision course with the rear of his father’s car. He dropped into third gear and put down his foot, squeezing the accelerator further, trying to make ground so that he could take note of the car’s registration number.

Hunter watched the BMW swing onto the opposite carriageway and pull alongside his father and mother’s car
.  At first he thought the car was going to overtake but then the BMW snaked smashing its front end against the side of his parent’s car.