Scared to Death (A Detective Kay Hunter novel)

by Rachel Amphlett

  Live footage.

  Eli stretched his neck from side to side, checked the speedometer, and turned right into the narrow lane that swept upwards across open farmland towards home.

  His next fix was ready.

  A burst of static then spat from the radio, before the headlights died and the van was plunged into darkness.

  Eli swung the van hard to the left, the suspension bouncing across the soft verge as he brought the vehicle to a sliding halt.

  He sat for a moment, shocked, and then swore and punched the steering wheel.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Bernard Coombs bunched the sleeve of his fleece jacket over his fist, leaned over the steering wheel, and wiped at the faint sheen of condensation that stuck to the windscreen.

  His breath fogged in front of his nose, and he shivered as he drew his hand back, wrapping his fingers around the wheel before the thirty-year-old vehicle splashed through a puddle, the ancient suspension creaking as the wheels sank several inches into a deep pothole.

  He swore under his breath, and cursed the local garage for not returning his two-year-old Range Rover that day as promised.

  He flicked the wipers up a notch, then squinted through the rain assaulting the yellow beam of the headlights, and tapped the brakes.

  Ahead, a van had left the road, its nose into the verge while the tailgate hung precariously into the path of approaching traffic, one of its back doors ajar, and the driver’s door wide open.

  He slowed further, the vehicle in darkness save for the reflectors at each end of its back bumper that shone red as he drew near.

  Swinging the vehicle out further into the lane to avoid a collision, he held a straight course as he drifted past, and craned his neck to see through the passenger window.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as the edge of the headlight beam afforded him a glimpse through the open driver’s door to where a figure lay prone across the seats, working under the dashboard.

  His gaze drifted to the illuminated dials of his wristwatch.

  Twelve forty-five.

  For a split second, he considered driving on. The figure wasn’t injured, after all.

  Then guilt set in, and he pulled the four-wheel drive to the left, braked hard, and killed the engine.

  Rain hammered on the roof, a deafening assault that hadn’t seemed so bad when he’d been barrelling along the lane.

  He reached out and flipped open the glove compartment, his fingers wrapping around the torch he kept there for emergencies, then he flicked up the hood of his jacket, and launched himself out into the night.

  The wind buffeted the door, and he fought to stay upright as his thumb hit the power switch for the torch. The beam shone across the divide between his vehicle and the van behind, and then fell upon the figure’s feet as they protruded from the driver’s door.

  Coombs kept the beam low as he approached the drenched figure, and he pulled his jacket tighter around his chest.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  He realised it was a man, of slim build, and only an inch or two shorter than himself, and gave a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn’t a woman stuck out here on her own. The man was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, which threw a shadow across his features in the torchlight.

  His response was tugged away by a gust of wind, and Coombs cupped his hand behind his ear.

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Fuse has blown.’

  Coombs gestured to the glove compartment where the figure worked, then shone his torch at it.

  The man gave him a half-hearted thumbs-up, and turned his attention back to the work at hand.

  Coombs watched as the man deftly wrenched out one fuse at a time, held it up to the light, and then replaced it before moving onto the next.

  He sniffed.

  The next gust of wind carried a distinct aroma of sweat from the figure next to him, and he took a step to his left, keeping the torch beam focused on the glove compartment.

  The man worked in silence, a stubbled chin jutting out from under the hood of his jacket, and made no effort to strike up a conversation.

  Within a minute or two, the malfunctioning fuse had been located, and the figure withdrew a spare of the right colour from his pocket.

  ‘Does it all the time. Intermittent short blows the fuses,’ he said. ‘I keep spares.’

  ‘Good thinking.’

  As soon as the man dropped the replacement fuse into place, the van’s headlights burst into life.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Coombs. ‘I’ll go round and check your brake lights.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he burrowed deeper into the folds of his jacket and hurried along the length of the van, the torch beam bobbing alternatively between the sodden asphalt and the panels of the vehicle.

  He was glad the man had been able to fix the van – the thought of having to offer a lift to him and try to make polite conversation while he drove him to his destination filled him with an introvert’s dread. He’d stopped to help as it was the right thing to do in the circumstances, but he had no desire to prolong the encounter.

  He rounded the open door, the sound of the glove compartment being reassembled reaching his ears. A moment later, both brake lights flashed on.

  He bent down and looked through the length of the van. ‘All good,’ he called to the driver. ‘Try the indicators.’

  Coombs stepped back, away from the open door and nodded to himself as first the left, then the right indicator blinked. ‘Okay.’

  He reached out to close the door, and then stopped.

  The torch beam wavered, and he blinked.

  A dark stain covered the back corner of the van, nearest the door hinges, and he frowned as his eyes travelled over a streaked pattern that spread across the floor of the vehicle.

  The van rocked as the driver turned around in his seat, his face still in shadow. ‘Everything alright?’

  Coombs swallowed. ‘Yes. All good.’

  He slammed the door shut, and hurried the length of the van towards his own vehicle, holding a hand up in farewell to the driver before the man could get out of the driver’s seat.

  Reaching his four-wheel drive, he thumbed the off switch on the torch, threw it onto the passenger seat, and slipped behind the wheel, locking the door.

  His eyes found the rear view mirror, and he almost cried out.

  The figure was standing at the front of the van, his silhouette haloed by the headlights blazing behind him, his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt.

  Coombs reached out for the ignition key, and then cursed the starter motor as it choked.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged.

  He checked the mirror.

  The figure had begun to walk towards the four-wheel drive, his outline growing larger.

  Coombs twisted the ignition key once more, and gasped when the engine caught.

  Throwing it into gear, he released the handbrake and floored the accelerator, sliding off the verge and onto the asphalt before regaining control.

  He honked the horn once, then exhaled, surprised that he’d been holding his breath.

  His heart rate thumped painfully between his ribs, and he forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. Despite the chill air, sweat poured from his brow, and he wiped at his face with the back of his hand.

  A rabbit skittered away from his headlights. When he glanced down at the dashboard, he saw he was driving twenty miles over the speed limit.

  He checked his mirrors.

  The van remained stationary, receding into the distance.

  Coombs eased off the accelerator, tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, and resolved to get home in one piece.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Kay sat at her desk, and tried to fight down the frustration at the lack of progress.

  The calls to Crimestoppers had begun to slow down, which meant the team could get on top of the leads that had come in to date, but also meant the public were beginning to lose interest.

&nbs
p; They were losing valuable time. The golden time for collating information was long past, and people’s memories had a tendency to fade quickly.

  She flicked open the internet browser window on her computer, and brought up the link to the auction site she’d found yesterday.

  Her eyes travelled down the list of vehicles for sale once more, and noted there were new advertisements since her last search. She tweaked the search string to omit the larger vans until she was left with vehicles that resembled the one they’d seen on the CCTV footage.

  That still left eight pages of vehicles.

  She noted some were for sale by private owners. She wondered whether to ask Carys to chase up Bob Rogers for the auction records from his head office, and then discounted the idea. Carys would tell her when the records came in. She would just have to wait.

  She blinked, and read the listing at the bottom of the second page again.

  ‘Interesting,’ she murmured, and clicked on the advert.

  It had been placed by Darren Phillips’ garage. She hit the print button, and then walked over to Carys’ desk with it.

  ‘Can you get on to Darren Phillips, and ask him to provide us with the details of all the auction vehicles he’s sold on behalf of County Deliveries in the past three months?’

  ‘Will do.’ Carys frowned. ‘I thought all their vehicles were sold by that company at Sheerness?’

  ‘Exactly. And he didn’t volunteer the information when I spoke with him the other day, either. Let me know what you find out.’

  ‘Sarge?’

  Kay glanced over her shoulder to see Gavin Piper peering around the doorframe. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘There’s a bloke in reception. He wanted to speak to Inspector Sharp, but he’s in a meeting at the moment. He’d seen him on TV on the media conference about Melanie Richards. He seems agitated, so I thought he could speak with you.’

  ‘Who is he?

  ‘Bernard Coombs. Says he’s a farmer out Coxheath way. Alleges he has information that might be to do with Melanie Richards’ kidnapping.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Kay. ‘On my way.’

  KAY SHOWED Bernard Coombs into the interview suite and left the door ajar.

  ‘We’ll get started as soon as DC Barnes joins us,’ she said, removing her jacket. She slung it over the back of one of the chairs, and gestured to the seat opposite, dropping a file onto the table between them. ‘Please – make yourself comfortable.’

  Coombs sat, shuffled his weight on the chair, and exhaled. ‘I can’t help thinking that I’m overreacting.’

  Kay smiled. ‘Let us decide that. It’s much better to tell us about something you’re concerned about than let it fester away. You’ll only worry about it otherwise.’

  He nodded. ‘True.’

  The door was nudged open, and Barnes appeared, three Styrofoam cups of coffee balanced in his hands.

  Kay shut the door as he distributed the drinks onto the table, then took her seat next to him. She reached out for her coffee, and blew across its surface.

  ‘Now,’ she said, as Barnes flipped open his notebook. ‘Why don’t you take us through what you saw? Our desk clerk said you’d been travelling near Straw Mill Hill after midnight last night – why was that?’

  ‘I’ve got a small flock of sheep up there. One or two of them are showing signs of an infection, so I went up to check on them.’ Coombs leaned back in his chair, his coffee cup hugged to his chest. ‘Found a broken fence post while I was there, so it was pitch black by the time I finished mending that. It started raining as I got there, and the track was pretty slippery. Took me an age to get across the field to the lane.’

  Kay flipped open the manilla folder, and unfolded an A3-sized map of the local area. ‘Can you show me where that field is, and where you stopped to help the man with the van?’

  The farmer put his cup down and pulled the map closer, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses.

  ‘The entrance to the field is here,’ he said, stabbing his finger on the page. He waited while Kay placed a small cross with her pen next to his finger, and then moved it across the map. ‘And this is the lane I was driving along when I came across the broken-down van.’ He tapped the page twice. ‘Here.’

  Kay added another cross.

  ‘Is that lane often used by motorists?’ she said. ‘Looks a bit narrow.’

  Coombs shrugged. ‘I’ve always used it to get from home to the fields. It’s a rat run during the day sometimes if there’s a crash on the main road, but I don’t often see anyone along there at that time of night.’

  ‘Okay, so you’re driving along. What time is it?’

  The farmer shook his head. ‘It was about twelve forty-five. I remember looking at my watch a moment after I saw the van pulled over to the side of the road. I wondered who’d be out at that time of night.’

  Kay nodded, pleased that the farmer’s recall was sharp. ‘Go on. Walk me through what happened, as you remember it, and I’ll ask any questions I might have at the end.’

  The farmer nodded, cleared his throat, and then continued. ‘I slowed down to pass the van – the lane is really narrow there. At first, I thought it might have crashed, but then I noticed the driver’s door was open, and a figure was lying across the front seats. I couldn’t see much because it was so dark, but I was glad it wasn’t a woman out there on her own.’ He paused to take a sip of his coffee. ‘I parked in front, grabbed a torch, and went back to see if I could help. The man was trying to work in complete darkness. All the lights on his van had gone out, and he said it was something to do with one of the fuses. He had a spare, and was working his way through them.’

  Coombs put his coffee cup down, and leaned his forearms on the table, his brow creased. ‘I didn’t think anything was wrong until the lights came back on. I told him I’d check the rear lights for him – he’d left the back door open, to get tools and stuff out I suppose – anyway, the lights came back on, and I was just about to shut the door for him when I looked down and saw blood on the floor of the van.’

  ‘How can you be sure it was blood?’ asked Barnes.

  ‘I’m a farmer. I’ve seen plenty of blood in my time. I know what I saw.’

  Kay held up her hand to pacify him. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The man was in the driver’s seat,’ said Coombs. He shivered. ‘I don’t know. There was something that changed the moment I’d paused to shut the door, as if he knew I’d seen something.’ He swallowed. ‘He asked if everything was okay. I said it was, slammed the door shut, and hurried back to my car as fast as I could.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to hang around. As I was starting the engine, he got out of his van. He stood there in the headlight beam as I drove away.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Coombs frowned. ‘He was slim. I couldn’t see his eyes – it was too dark. About five foot eleven, I suppose. I couldn’t see his hair. He was wearing a sweatshirt with a hood.’

  Kay resisted the urge to sigh. ‘Did you see what colour van it was, given it was dark?’

  The farmer nodded, and reached into his trouser pocket. ‘I did better than that,’ he said, and passed her a folded piece of paper, then pointed at it. ‘Registration number.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Kay checked her watch. ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘About one-fifteen.’

  ‘It’s now ten forty-five in the morning. What made you change your mind about reporting this?’

  The farmer sighed. ‘At first I tried to convince myself it was nothing. But I saw the news reports about that girl who’d been killed.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. There was something about the way that man acted. It didn’t feel right.’

  ‘Did he mention at all where he’d been, or where he was going?’

  ‘No. Nothing. The only times he spoke to me was to explain about the fuses, and then to ask if I was okay when I was by the back door of the van. Nothing else.’

 
‘Mr Coombs, I think we’ve got enough to look at for now, especially as you’ve given us the registration number,’ said Kay. ‘Detective Barnes here will sort out a statement based on our conversation for you to read and sign. Are you okay to wait while we do that?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kay. She shook hands with the farmer, and retrieved her jacket and the folder. ‘I’ll leave you with Detective Barnes, and I’ll be in touch if we need to speak with you again.’

  She excused herself, and hurried back to the incident room, handing the registration number to Gavin as she passed.

  Sharp spun in his chair to face her as she dumped the folder on his desk.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We’re definitely looking for someone who’s a local and knows the area,’ said Kay, tapping the end of her pen on the desk as she stared at the large map on the wall. The two locations the farmer had pointed out had been added, transcribed from the mark-ups she made during the interview. She leaned across until she could see Gavin sitting at his computer. ‘Anything on that registration number yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Computer’s bloody slow this morning, and apparently there’s a backlog of enquiries since the weekend.’

  ‘As soon as you can, then.’

  Sharp rubbed his chin. ‘Do you think this is our man?’

  Kay frowned. ‘If he isn’t, he’s still got some explaining to do.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  A new burst of energy engulfed the team, and as Kay pored over an enlarged map of the area where Bernard Coombs had reported seeing the stranger’s van, she felt the familiar adrenalin rush of the expectation of a breakthrough in the case.

  Carys wound her way around the desks towards Kay, and held up a stapled bunch of paperwork.

  ‘I got the auction records emailed through from Darren Phillips,’ she said. ‘None of the vans he’s sold locally in the past three months are our vehicle.’

  ‘How many has he sold around here?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the owners of the three that were,’ said Carys. ‘One was purchased by a market trader at Whitstable who has a strong alibi, one was written off in a car accident five weeks ago, and the other was bought by an elderly couple near Wrotham Heath who rescue greyhounds. They’ve got alibis as well – they were staying at their daughter’s house over at Croydon last week.’