Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (6 page)

He listened as she excitedly related over the line what she was currently occupied with. In the glass panel of one of the doors he had exited by he caught his ghost-like image. His facial expression was one of disappointment and he was glad she couldn’t see him. As she finished he composed himself.

“A real baptism of fire eh? Good for you. Okay Grace, don’t worry. I can see you’re going to have your hands full and it sounds as though you’ve got it all well under control. Listen I’m going to be up here for another couple of days until they release my parents. You crack on and I’ll ring you daily so that you can update me.” He ended the call sounding bright but deep down he was agitated. He needed someone to do some discreet and maybe underhand digging for him. Someone whom he knew he could trust an
d Grace had been his best hope. At that moment someone else sprang to mind; someone whom he knew always got a result. Hunter checked his mobile contacts, selected the name he wanted and began to make the call.

- ooOoo –

DAY TWO: 25th August.

Barnwell:

Coruscating light forced its way through the thin fabric of the closed blinds and the smell of fresh furniture polish greeted Grace as she breezed into the MIT office. Judging by its freshness she must have missed Angie the cleaner only by minutes she thought to herself as she swished open the blinds. That was a pity because she loved having girlie chats with Angie; she knew all the building’s gossip, especially the real juicy stuff; who was having an affair with whom.

Shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of her swivel seat she pulled a large file from the top of her tray and opened it up on her desk blotter. She fired-up her computer and dropped into her chair.

She had got into work early; in the absence of Hunter she had the responsibility of pulling together the inquest file of ‘The Dearne Valley Demon,’ and she wanted to make in-roads into its completion before things got manic when the new investigation got underway that morning.

For a few seconds whilst waiting for the programme to load, her mind wandered - mulling once more over the events of the 12
th
August, and she felt her chest beginning to tighten. As the blood pounded somewhere inside her head, causing a rushing sensation in her ears, she took several deep breaths in an attempt to retake control. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. She hated the sensation these attacks brought and wondered if they would ever go away.

‘This isn’t fair. I want my life back.’ 

After just a couple of deep breaths she could feel the tight band across her chest slacken. She steadied herself and left-clicked the computer mouse, opening up the document folder titled ‘Inquest doc.’ She’d already drafted most of it and she speed-read back over the summary to the point where she had ended the report the previous day. Closing her eyes she thought about the final points she needed to add. Less than a minute later she snapped open her eyelids, scanned the screen again, flicked the cursor to the point where she needed to pick up, clicked her mouse and began typing.

* * * * *

Footfalls along the corridor outside the department broke into her deep concentration. She glanced at her watch; the last hour had flown. The first detectives were beginning to filter into the office. With the opening of the doors a new aroma assaulted her nostrils; the greasy smell of bacon sandwiches from the canteen. Her stomach rumbled and she realised how hungry she was; she had given breakfast a miss at home that morning.

Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars, her team members, were amongst the first in. She acknowledged them with a smile and a nod. Mike was making for the office kettle. He stopped in mid-stride catching Grace’s gaze and mimed the act of pouring a cup into his mouth, silently mouthing the words ‘want one?’  She nodded gratefully and began bundling up her papers. Less than a minute later Mike was clonking down a mug of freshly brewed coffee in front of her as she was closing down her computer. She caught sight of his cheery well-rounded face. “Right let’s get ready for briefing” she announced more to herself than to Mike and saved the file before closing down the computer.

Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw had the role of SIO again. He stood in front of the incident boards flicking through the notes belonging to DI Scaife. He peered over the top of his spectacles and swelled his muscular chest straining his crisp white shirt. Grace knew that the Superintendent was a man who regularly maintained his fitness; she knew that like Hunter he worked out regularly despite his workload. Snapping the journal shut he cleared his throat.

“Good morning ladies and gents,” he began. “In the words of the old adage it never rains but it pours, we have just cleared up one set of nasty murders and now we have another particularly grisly one turn up.” Pausing, he added, “This is playing havoc with my budget.”

There was a ripple of laughter around the room.

He tapp
ed the incident board behind him over the photograph of the bloated grotesque face from the mortuary shots. “Okay on a serious note, our job is to find out who murdered this young Asian woman. As you can see from the decomposition she is unrecognisable. She was found stripped naked and with no marks of identification. We have her DNA and we have her fingerprints but at this moment in time we do not know who she is or anything about her life.” He tapped another photo. “But what we do know is that three to four weeks ago she was badly beaten, raped, had her throat cut, was bundled inside a rug and then dumped in the bottom of Barnwell lake where she lay until yesterday afternoon when two divers on a training schedule found her.”

‘Succinctly put’ thought Grace to herself. She realised that in just those few words he had made short shrift of the forensic Pathologist’s two hour post mortem.

“Our main priority is to find out who this young lady was. We also have quite a wide time frame between the murder and the body being found and as yet we don’t know where she was killed, only where she was dumped. We are up against it, but we have all been here before and I know you lot will fill in the gaps.” He tapped the incident board again, glancing behind him before resetting his gaze on the faces of the detectives. “What we do have is the rug she was found wrapped up in and the weapon that was used to slit her throat. We can all see that these appear to be foreign and these are our leads at the moment so if no one has any questions DI Scaife will give you your tasks so you can get out there and clear this up.”

There were no questions; the briefing broke up and the MIT detectives picked up their assignments for the day.

Grace was still acting DS; the DI told her that Hunter had been in touch and he wouldn’t be back for at least another three days. She collared Mike and Tony.

“Right you two we’ve got the job of checking missing persons because of our experience with the last set of murders and also finding out about the murder weapon, especially to see if there are any local outlets who sell it.” She snatched her jacket from
off the back of her chair, picked up the car keys and slung them towards Tony. “Bully you’re driving,” she said and strode purposefully towards the doors.

* * * * *

North Yorkshire:

Hunter paced the hospital corridors. He was frustrated and tired. He had slept very little the previous night; they had managed to book a family room in a motel not too far from the hospital and he had spent a restless night going over the events in his head. The more he had mulled over the incident the more he made connections with yesterday morning’s clash between his father and that stranger and this aftermath.

Now he had another long day before him at the hospital unable to make any in-roads into finding out who was responsible for doing this to his parents.

Beth and the boy’s were flitting between Ward Two, where his mum was ‘comfortable and stable,’ and the side ward where his dad was resting. He was having trouble being in the same room as his father; he wouldn’t say anything. He had tried to be patient in his approach but he knew his dad was holding back on some secret and was refusing to give it up. It had got to the stage where his father
lay with eyes shut, refusing to answer any of his questions.

Several times he had tried to call the number he had rung last night but it was now switched off, and on divert and his head was swimming around in circles.

He strolled down to the drinks machine on the floor below even though he hated drinking out of plastic cups and dropped his loose change into the slot. They were out of tea, milk one sugar. He kicked the bottom panel and growled. Then his mobile rang. He viewed the screen; ‘withheld’ flashed up; he guessed who this was – he would be ringing from one of the office phones.

“Hello – Hunter” he answered.

“Hunter it’s me.”

He recognised the broad South Yorkshire dialect immediately. “Have you got anything for me?”

“Afraid not. I’ve made quite a few phone calls but there’s not a whisper down here. I also went round to all of the Paynton’s houses, and the locks-ups they have access to, but there’s no sign of a silver BM. And everyone I spoke with yesterday have never seen any of the family in one. I’ve checked with Intelligence and nothing with that part registration features on our system. It’s a complete blank at the moment but I’ve put a few feelers out so if I turn up anything I’ll bell you. Okay?”

Despondently Hunter thanked him and rang off; though he knew shouldn’t feel down. If any villains from his ‘back yard’ had carried this out then he knew his source would get to hear. He would have to rely on that for the moment - well until he could get back to base and then he would shake some trees himself.

- ooOoo –

DAY FOUR: 27
th
August.

Glasgow.

Fraser Cullen kept in the shadows, press
ing himself against the crumbling brickwork of the high walls at the entranceway to the derelict car park. He lit up another cigarette; he’d only just finished the last one – but then he was more nervous than normal.

He pulled up the collar of his jacket. Was it his imagination or had the temperature dropped since his arrival half an hour ago?  It had to be the dampness of his surroundings he told himself.

Every time he heard the sound of a car’s engine he stuck his head out from his hiding place and scoured the partly cobbled street of Sauchiehall Lane. Fraser glanced at his stolen designer watch; he’d give them another ten minutes then he was off.

He almost missed the silver BMW; it coast
ed past, hardly making a sound. He took a final drag on his cigarette, dropped the burning remnant, and scrunched it underfoot, before he stepped out into the lane.

The car reversed and pulled alongside
Fraser, its wheels scrunching over loose chippings, the rubber walls of the nearside tyres squealing as they scraped against the kerb. Fraser bent down dispersing the smoke from his lungs as the passenger window slid down.

The front passenger wafted a hand in front of his mouth and nose. “Fucking hell do you have to do that?” he exclaimed.

The deep gravelly tones in the voice of the man had not changed, not even after all this time thought Fraser:  Though his appearance had. The hair had been ravaged by grey and he couldn’t help but notice the flash of the scar that ran from the bridge of his nose down towards his jaw. The occupant of the front seat had been a hard bastard when he known him thirty odd years ago now he looked even harder.

“What have you got for me then Fraser?”

Fraser lowered himself, resting a hand on the car door, levelling his eyes and meeting the gaze of the front passenger. “I found him Billy. It wasn’t easy mind,” he replied in his broad Glaswegian dialect. “You’ll find him drinking regularly in Lauders on Sauchiehall Street. He’s there most days. Goes in about four in the afternoon, and usually leaves about half seven. He comes down this way to get to the subway off Bath Street. I’ve followed him three times now without him knowing. And there’s nae CCTV,” he said darting his eyes around the high buildings which lined both sides of the narrow lane.

Billy smiled, reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a handful of Scottish notes. “There’s a ton Fraser. Now piss off and don’t tell anyone we’ve met.”

Before Fraser could even reply the smoke glass window was sliding up and the rear wheels were spinning and chewing up the loose gravel as the BMW lurched towards the main road.

* * * * *

Alistair McPherson stood at the front steps of Lauders bar tapping the filter of his cigarette on its packet before popping it into his mouth. He lit it in cupped hands; it was an old habit from his army days. He inhaled deeply and his chest shook sending out a spluttering cough. It lasted several seconds before he banged his chest and brought it under control.

Jesus these things are going to kill me one day
.

He stood for a good minute taking in the sights and sounds of Sauchiehall Street; how it had changed over the years. It had gone upmarket since his time of working here. It was now a busy thoroughfare full of high-class shops and many of the gracious houses had been converted into offices. He stepped onto the pavement and began his steady meander home. He would pick up his fish supper on the way back he told himself. He turned the corner into Sauchiehall Lane, heading for the subway which would take him towards his home. As he did so he heard the car pulling up behind him; guessed it would be someone wanting directions; lots of tourists got confused by the traffic system. He stepped to one side
, waiting whilst it drew level and removing the cigarette from his mouth he held it in one cupped hand. The electric window coasted down. Alistair turned sideways to talk to the driver but could only see his chest and shoulders. He slowly bent down to get a better view only to be met by a piercing stare from the scar-faced passenger leaning across the shaven-headed driver. There was something about that face that registered.

“Remember me Mr McPherson?” said scar-face.

The voice was deep and menacing and a wave of panic shot through Alistair.

* * * * *

The DOA – ‘dead on arrival’ call was logged at seven-fifty pm; discovered by a young waiter who had slipped out through the rear emergency doors of the restaurant into the derelict car park for a ‘smoke-break.’  He’d had the shock of his life when he had tripped over the crumpled mess. He thought at first it had just been a pile of rags; people were always dumping their rubbish here, but then he’d spotted the thick congealed blood beneath his feet. The sight of the mush, which had once been a head, had almost made him sick.

He had immediately dialled 999 on his mobile and asked for the ambulance service; because the body was close to the fire stairwell he had assumed that the dead guy had accidently fallen. Then he’d fled back inside the restaurant and dragged out his boss to bear witness to what he had found.

The ambulance crew who turned up, knew, from a brief examination of the deceased, that the horrific injuries inflicted upon the man’s head had not been the result of an accident, and they radioed in an immediate request to their control for police attendance.

The first officers on scene were there in a matter of minutes; Pitt Street police station was only three hundred yards away.

The uniform Sergeant stooped over the prostrate body trying to make out the facial features. There was little doubt the man had taken a severe hammering, his head and face was one mass of blood and his forehead had been caved in; he was barely recognisable.

“Looks like somebody’s tap-danced on his head,” he said, glancing at his colleague, whilst slipping on a pair of latex gloves.

He began to search through the dead man’s pockets. He had already determined that if they could get some form of ID it would be a start. He found the man’s wallet in an inside jacket pocket and began rummaging through the cards. In the back section he found a laminated National Association of Retired Police Officers membership card. It grabbed his attention. He stared at the name and then at the photograph. He shot a glance back at his team-mate, his face taking on a sudden look of disbelief.

“Bloody hell I know this guy,” the sergeant exclaimed. “He was in CID at Shettlestone nick.”

By eight-fifteen pm, the full length of Sauchiehall Lane had been cordoned off; a major enquiry was underway.

- ooOoo -