Coming, Ready or Not (D.S. Hunter Kerr Book 4) (23 page)

Day Seventeen: 3rd April.

He took a grip on his shuddering Despite the extra layers of clothing he had put on the cold was beginning to creep through. When he had slipped into position two hours ago he hadn’t anticipated the temperature dropping so low.

Nevertheless, it had been worth it.
For the last hour, hiding among bushes opposite the house, he had watched her flitting backwards and forwards across the lounge window. Now, however, he’d just lost that view. Her lover had closed the curtains.

He clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists.

Suddenly, the front door opened making him jump. He tucked himself tighter into the bushes.

Back-lit by the hall light she appeared in the entranceway, carrying something.

Standing stock-still he strained his eyes to get a better look.

She stepped down onto the path and walked in front of the garage. The security light activated giving him a much clearer look. He saw that she was carrying out the rubbish.

Stopping by the wheelie bin, she opened it, deposited the rubbish and dropped down the lid. Then, instead of walking back into the house, she turned and looked in his direction.

His heart missed a beat.
Holding his breath, he didn’t move.

A few seconds later,
she shook her head, shrugged her shoulders and then headed back indoors.

As she closed the front
door, he let out the breath he had been holding and glanced up at the night sky. He smiled. Together with the camouflage clothing he had brought, the darkness had played its part.

As
he emerged from the bushes he thought about his next move.

- ooOoo -

Day Eighteen: 4th April.

Hunter was making his way across the station’s rear yard when he heard his name being called. He looked up to the first floor and saw Barry Newstead half-leaning out of an open window.

Barry shouted,
‘There’s a DC on the phone from Devon and Cornwall wanting you. He says it’s important.’

Hunter broke into a jog, quickly keyed in the door security code, took the
back staircase two steps at a time and burst into the office.

He checked Barry
’s look, as he gestured towards his desk and Hunter spied the handset resting on his blotter.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up the phone.
‘DS Kerr.’

The person on the other line announced he was DC
Highton based at Wadebridge.

For ten minutes Hunter hung on to every
word the detective said. He made copious notes on bits of scrap paper, and fired off the occasional question, but mostly, he listened. When he’d finished, before hanging up, he scouted the room. The person he wanted wasn’t in.

He caught Barry
’s gaze as he replaced the handset.

Barry said,
‘Looking at that face, the words cat and cream come to mind.’

‘
Just got a right result. Do you know where the gaffer is?’

Barry flicked his head towards the far wall.
‘Last I saw, she was next door.’

Hunter could hardly contain himself as he breezed into the HOLMES team’s office. He saw the Detective Superintendent checking through some house-to-house questionnaires. She had pulled up a chair and was sitting beside Isobel Stevens.

‘
Boss, have you got a couple of minutes. I did what you asked yesterday – sent down a photograph of the green hooded cape and some information about our murders, to Devon and Cornwall, and a DC from Wadebridge has just got back to me. I think we’ve tracked down the origins of the cape found on Polly.’

Dawn Leggate lowered her papers.
‘You have?’

‘
Yes, an unsolved murder in Cornwall going back to 1986. In a place called Harlyn Bay. And get this, that’s the same place where Polly stayed on holiday.’

‘
Good God, Hunter, that’s brilliant.’

‘
I know, great result, isn’t it! Apparently, this DC’s dad is a retired DI, and he happened to be talking to him about our job and showed him the photo. The ex-DI is almost certain it’s from one of their unsolved murders. He worked on the case of a couple who were murdered while camping at Harlyn Bay. I’ve only got the sketchiest of details, so I’ve asked him to e-mail me or fax me something. He’s going to get some more from his dad and then see what he can get from their archives.’

‘
Bugger that, Hunter. Get back onto him, and tell him you’re going down to speak personally with his dad. Sort out some accommodation, book out a pool car and take Grace with you. And don’t come back until you’ve detected our job.’ She flashed him a huge grin. ‘This is just what we’ve been waiting for.’

- ooOoo -

Day Nineteen: 5th April.

Harlyn Bay, Cornwall.

On a
well-worn path down to Harlyn Bay beach Rodney Highton marched ahead of Hunter and Grace. A battering wind was meeting them headlong and making for an uncomfortable journey.

Head down, Hunter called ahead,
‘Your son said on the phone that you’re fairly confident this job is connected to ours.’

Above the sound of the wind
Rodney shouted back. ‘After seeing the photo he showed me the other day, I’m almost one hundred per cent certain that hooded cloak he showed me belonged to our female victim. You did say it was found on a murdered girl, back in your neck-of-the-woods, didn’t you?’

‘
A sixteen-year-old girl, called Polly Hayes. She was stabbed, while out walking her dog, in nineteen eighty-eight.’

The former DI
’s pace was slackening. ‘And our job was in nineteen eighty-six, two years earlier. That’s too much of a coincidence wouldn’t you say. I mean two females murdered. Ours was missing a green hooded cloak exactly like the one your girl was found wearing.’

‘
She was found wrapped in it,’ corrected Hunter.

‘
And you’ve also said your victim had holidayed down here?’

‘
Two months before she was murdered.’

Highton stepped down off the path onto the
beach. Hunter and Grace followed. The sand was damp and compacted.

Glancing
back he continued, ‘And you’ve also said you believed the killer you’re hunting is swapping trophies between victims?’

‘
Not believe anymore. We know that as a definite fact.’

‘
Answers all the questions then! For me, this has to be the same killer.’ He turned and rubbed his hands. ‘I’ve been waiting years for this.’

And so have I
, thought Hunter.

Heading off right,
towards the jutting headland, Highton stopped after fifty yards of trudging through uneven wet sand. ‘This is roughly where we found the murder weapon – a scythe.’

Hunter
was only a couple of yards behind Rodney Highton, but he could only just make out what he was saying – the combination of crashing waves and the billowing wind, whipping in off the Atlantic Ocean, and the discordant cries of squawking seagulls, swooping and hovering around them, competed against his soft West Country accent. He leaned in and focussed on the wet patch of sand the retired DI was pointing to. He met his eyes and nodded. ‘Any forensics?’ Hunter asked.

Rodney shook his head,
‘No. It had been in the sea for hours. It was only by sheer luck it was found. The tide was out.’

Hunter followed the
line of the man’s tilted-back head. He was looking up the sloping cliff face of the headland.

Pointing upwards
, Highton said, ‘We believe it was thrown from up there. There’s a path leading from the campsite. It goes all the way around the headland.’ He paused and added, ‘The weapon used to kill the couple was stolen from the outbuilding of a farm, half a mile away from here.’ The retired DI spun on his heels and faced Hunter and Grace. ‘Come on I’ll show you now where we found the bodies.’ As he set off the wind caught his coat and whipped it around him like a cape. It seemed to catch him unawares for a second and he staggered. Then, catching himself, he leaned into the buffeting wind and put in a military style march back the way they had come.

Hunter watched his back and
thought,
What a character.

As he followed in his wake he found himself reflecting.

Yesterday, the laborious drive down to Cornwall had taken them seven-and-a-half hours. It had been 8.30 p.m., before he and Grace had booked into a small hotel in Wadebridge.

After
grabbing a meal and a pint, Hunter had spoken briefly over the phone with retired Detective Inspector, Rodney Highton and arranged to pick him up from his home that morning.

When they
had pulled up outside his bungalow, he was waiting for them on the doorstep, wearing a pin-stripe suit, with collar and tie; dressed as if he was still on the job.

As he had climbed into the back of their car he had tapped the face of his watch and reminded them,
‘You told me you’d pick me up at ten a.m. You’re ten minutes late.’

Hunter had f
ound himself apologising and had set off with a wheel-spin. Out of the corner of his eye he had caught Grace cracking a grin.

During
the journey to Harlyn Bay, the former DI had told them he had been retired ten years and then moaned on about how the job wasn’t like it used to be. ‘Bureaucratic and soft’ he had repeatedly said. At times, Hunter had found himself switching off. It had been like having an older version of Barry Newstead in the back of the car with them. He had been glad when they had finally pulled up at the campsite entrance.

They had been met by one of the site
’s joint owners, carrying out maintenance, who explained that they weren’t open yet for visitors. Once they explained the purpose of their visit he was more than happy to give them unrestricted access and left them to it.

It had been Hunter
’s first view of the place where Polly had holidayed in 1988, two months prior to her brutal death.

Calling back over his shoulder Rodney shouted above the wind,
‘This was my only undetected murder in thirty-five years. Good record that, eh?’

It dragged
Hunter back from his thoughts. He agreed it was a pretty good record and asked, ‘No suspects?’

Highton
glanced back as he walked, ‘None that you could put firmly in the frame for it. But I had my suspicions.’

After a couple more minutes of tramping across
calf high, damp rye-grass, the retired DI stopped and turned. He drew a circle in front of him. ‘This is where we found them. Roughly anyway. She was found inside the tent, and he was about ten yards away. Witnesses reported hearing shouting and screaming in the early hours but it was dark and so it wasn’t until first light when they were found. A bloke going to the toilet block saw their tent collapsed and went to investigate. He found the husband first and called the police. He was in a hell of a mess. The blade had actually gone in under his chin and up through the roof of his mouth. It looked as though he’d been crawling around for a while before he died. There was blood everywhere. The wife was found by the police. She had been slashed and hacked repeatedly with the same scythe. The pathologist said she had literally bled to death.’

‘
Just remind me of their names again?’ said Hunter.

‘
James and Helen Moore.’ He pushed a hand through his thick, wavy, white hair. ‘They lived not too far away from here – a little village out by Bodmin Moor. They were druids, the pair of them. Hence the cloak. They’d come here to meet up with others, to do whatever druids do. But they never actually got to meet up with any of them – their bodies were found the morning after they’d set up camp. They’d come here with their two fourteen-year-old sons – twins.’ He darted a nod towards a small clump of bushes. ‘The boys were found hiding in bushes over there – covered in their parents’ blood.’

‘
Did they see who’d done it?’

‘
To be honest we didn’t get anything from them. The pair were in a bit of a state when they were found. They weren’t injured or anything, just kept giving us these weird blank looks.’ He tapped his temple. ‘We took them to hospital and a child psychologist had a look at them. She said that they were in a deep state of shock. We were told there was no point in interviewing them until they came out of it and so we tried to track down their relatives.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We couldn’t find one living relative – would you believe that – and so Social Services took them into care. And, that’s when our problems started.

Hunter drove to the next village – Constantine Bay – and pulled into a pub car park for lunch. The pub was a traditional one made of Cornish granite with a dark slate roof. A sign next to the door said it served home-cooked food.

Hunter led the way inside.
The interior maintained the traditional look with oak beams to the ceilings and light painted walls. It was laid out mainly for the serving of food as opposed to drinking. Scanning the lounge he saw that most of the tables were occupied, but spotting an empty one next to a slate fireplace he pointed it out.

Grace shepherded Rodney Highton to the table
while Hunter got the drinks.

He bought two pints of
local hand-pulled beer and a glass of wine and made his way back. Grace and the retired DI were poring over a menu.

‘
The food looks nice,’ said Grace, looking up as Hunter set down her glass.

He slipped off his coat, hung it over the back of a seat and sat down. Taking the top off his beer he said,
‘Rodney, you were saying that you had your suspicions about who killed the couple?’

‘
Not at first we didn’t. It looked like a frenzied attack by a madman, and initially we focussed our enquiries on known psychiatric patients and we also visited psychiatric wards at all the hospitals around here. But as we got into the job and the forensics came through, or should I say, lack of forensics, it just didn’t feel right.’

‘
How do you mean?’

‘
Well, I’ll start with the victims first.’ He took a sip of his beer and licked his lips. ‘These two were a couple with no known enemies. They lived a very quiet lifestyle and there wasn’t anything untoward in their backgrounds. I mentioned to you earlier that we didn’t find one living relative of theirs – well that’s not strictly true. We did eventually find the pair’s adoptive parents. In both cases they were abandoned babies and taken care of by Social Services. Helen Moore originated from Liverpool and James from Birmingham. When we spoke to their adoptive parents we learned that during their early lives the pair were quiet and introvert. Helen was bright and an avid reader but didn’t want to stay on for further education. When she was seventeen she sat down with her adoptive parents one day and told them she wanted to find her own way in the world and then left. James was a creative young man, who fantasised a lot and who very much kept himself to himself. In fact at sixteen, he simply packed his bags, left a note telling his adoptive parents he was off to find work, and left home. That, in a nutshell was their early background.’ He shook his head and took another drink. ‘We have absolutely no idea how James and Helen came together. We just know that in nineteen seventy the pair married at Liskeard Register Office, rented a cottage on the edge of the moors and a year following their marriage Helen gave birth to twins.’ Pausing for a few seconds he drifted his gaze around the pub. Then he turned to Hunter and Grace. ‘I suppose the only thing that was slightly controversial was their practice of Paganism. They were involved with a group of druids around here.’ He swung his gaze between Hunter and Grace. ‘The press had a field day with that, I can tell you – rituals, dark arts and human sacrifices – that kind of stuff. You can imagine it, can’t you?’

‘
But their murders had nothing to do with that?’ asked Hunter.

‘
No. We’re almost certain of that. We spoke to the circle of druids they mixed with – who were their only friends by the way – and all of them had alibis.’

‘
What were they doing camping?’ asked Grace.

‘
It was a frequent thing apparently. They usually went off and camped near Bronze Age Monuments and the likes. Stone circles, that kind of thing.’ He took another drink. ‘You can see now what I said about the press having a field day!’

‘
And they hadn’t upset anyone? And it wasn’t a robbery?’ questioned Hunter.

Rodney shook his head.
‘We didn’t have any motive whatsoever. On the face of it, it was a random killing.’

‘
But you said you had your suspicions?’ asked Hunter.

‘
Only when we began to look closely at the twins. During our enquiries we discovered that they’d both been interviewed when they’d been eleven, following the death of a thirteen-year-old boy. The story went that a group of kids, including James and Helen’s lads, went off playing hide-and-seek around a derelict farmhouse, and one of them – a thirteen-year-old lad – didn’t come home. The local police organised a search that same evening, but they hadn’t found the lad by nightfall and so had to abandon it. He was found the following morning in an old chest freezer in the cellar of the disused farmhouse. He’d suffocated. All the kids were interviewed, but on the surface it looked like a tragic accident – the kid had climbed into the freezer to hide and the heavy lid had fallen shut on him. The inquest recorded an accidental verdict.’ He finished the remainder of his beer and set down his glass. ‘There is an add-on to this. Once we heard this story we re-interviewed the people who’d been involved in this and discovered that one of the girls in the group had been fancied by one of James and Helen’s boys, but the thirteen-year-old – the one who died – had got off with her and then repeatedly taken the mick out of them. Well once we’d heard this, we made arrangements to formally interview the boys, who by this time were in a care home just outside Wadebridge – but that never happened. We don’t know how, but we guessed they must have got wind, because when we turned up the next day, they were nowhere to be found. Both of them had packed most of their things and disappeared overnight. We circulated them, and made loads of enquires at the time, but we never found them. They as good as dropped off the face of the earth.’