Caffeine Nights Publishing
COMING, READY OR NOT
The fourth novel in the
DS Hunter Kerr series.
Michael Fowler
Fiction aimed at the heart
and the head...
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2014
Copyright © Michael Fowler 2014
Michael Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing
www.caffeine-nights.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-907565-79-3
Cover design by
Mark (Wills) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
COMING, READY OR NOT
MICHAEL FOWLER
Michael lives in the Dearne Valley area of South Yorkshire with his wife and two sons.
He served as a police officer for thirty-two years, both in uniform and in plain clothes, working in CID, Vice Squad and Drug Squad, and retired as an Inspector in charge of a busy CID Department in 2006.
Coming, Ready or Not is the fourth novel in the DS Hunter Kerr series.
Aside from writing, his other passion is painting, and as a professional artist he has numerous artistic accolades to his name. His work can be found in numerous galleries throughout the UK.
He is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association.
He can be contacted via his website at www.mjfowler.co.uk
By the same author:
HEART OF THE DEMON
COLD DEATH
SECRETS OF THE DEAD
e-book: BLACK & BLUE
PROLOGUE
25th July 1986.
Harlyn Bay, Cornwall.
The noise jolted her awake. Startled, Helen Moore snapped open her eyes but she couldn’t see a thing. A thick tar wall of darkness faced her. For a moment, the intensity of the blackness threw her and she scrambled together her thoughts. Then she remembered. She was surprised as to how dark it was inside their tent.
‘Did you hear that?’
Beside her James jumped. ‘What?’
Helen wrenched her eyes wider, trying to pierce the gloom. But it was pointless. It was pitch black dark and so she strained to listen, holding her breath.
She whispered, ‘That noise?’
‘Noise?’
In the distance a percussive crash of thunder fractured the silence. Helen’s heart leapt.
‘It’s only thunder,’ her husband said.
Somehow, she was pretty damn sure that the noise, which had disturbed her only a few seconds ago, hadn’t been thunder, but it was now trapped in the depths of her sub-conscious and she couldn’t drag it back. Through gritted teeth she sharply replied, ‘That’s thunder now, but I heard something else. I think I heard someone moving around outside.’
‘It’ll probably be a fox.’
She made an attempt at sitting up but her sleeping bag was wrapped so tightly around her that she slumped sideways. She shouldered the ground tarpaulin heavily and let out a moan. As she fought to prop herself up a second clap of thunder peeled in the distance.
After a couple of seconds of awkward shuffling she manoeuvred herself into a sitting position, anchoring herself by drawing up her knees. Holding her breath she listened.
Silence.
Suddenly feeling foolish, Helen shook her head. It must have been the storm, she told herself, and her half-asleep mind had been playing tricks with her thoughts.
And then the noise struck up again – a rustling sound close by.
Goosebumps prickled her flesh. She stiffened. It sounded as if something or someone was dragging their way through the grass.
‘There,’ she said. ‘There it is again. Listen!’
This time she honed in on a soft shuffling sound. It sounded as if someone was padding around only a few yards from the tent’s entrance.
‘Did you hear that?’
With a hushed moan James said, ‘I’ll take a look. I’m telling you it’ll just be a fox, or even a badger, something like that.’
She heard a zip unfasten and although she still couldn’t pick anything out in the darkness she could visualise her husband pulling himself out of his sleeping bag.
James brushed past her and then she heard him zipper apart the entranceway. A silvery thread of moonlight washed in through the opening, and she caught his silhouette, on all fours, edging outside.
As the tent folds closed behind him, once again her vision was overcome by blackness and she turned an ear to the entrance. At that moment, despite being encased in her sleeping bag, she felt exposed. She leaned forwards, wrapped her hands around her legs and pulled her knees tightly towards her chest.
For a few seconds the only sounds she could hear were the swish of grass and James’s soft curses. She had a vision of her husband scrambling animal-like amongst the damp undergrowth.
A sudden cry of ‘Oi’ made her jump. Helen tightened her grip on her knees. Scuffling broke out. Then, a desperate scream of ‘No’ pierced the night air.
An overwhelming sense of fear and dread enveloped her as she desperately fought to make sense of what was happening outside. A split second later she felt the ground reverberate – as if someone had fallen with a heavy bump nearby.
Helen’s chest tightened. Her heart contracted and a sharp pain made her flinch. Then, her stomach turned making her feel sick and faint. She gasped and froze. She took a hold of herself. Instinct was telling her something was wrong. Dead wrong! Especially that something bad had happened to James and yet she still whimpered his name.
For a few seconds there was complete silence. She pulled her legs even tighter. Braced herself so tight that pins and needles sparked through her lower limbs.
Soft spoken words broke the peace. It sounded like someone was whispering numbers. Counting down.
Then a high-pitched tone hissed. ‘Coming, ready or not!’
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER ONE
17th March 2009.
Sheffield.
In the Frog & Parrot, on Division Street, Leonna Lewis’s ‘Bleeding Love’ boomed from a large set of speakers, piled high upon the staging area, reverberating into the room, tormenting Gemma Cooke’s hearing. Tormenting her, because picking her way through the song, some of the lyrics were so adversely poignant, given what she had recently gone through, and in another time and another place she might have shed a tear. But, not right now. Tonight she was going to celebrate with her friends. Added to that, the large amount of vodka and coke she had drunk over the last few hours had numbed any feelings of sorrow.
She felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket; the noise had stifled its ringtone. She moved to retrieve it. For a few seconds she fumbled around, struggling to pull it
out – the combination of the tightness of her jeans and her slouched position in her seat making it difficult. Finally she tugged it free. Flipping it open she saw that she had one new message, though it wasn’t from anyone on her contact list. In fact, she didn’t recognise the number. She pressed the OK button and the text flashed onto her screen. It took her only a few seconds to read the three lines of text but in that short space of time the drunken happiness she had been experiencing abandoned her, as her stomach turned-turtle and the bile rose in her throat.
An anxious voice opposite broke her free from her trance-like state.
‘Gemma, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Across the table, over a sea of alcoholic drinks, Gemma sought out her best friend Lauren. Catching her concerned look, in a loud, vitriolic tone, she snapped, ‘Look what that bastard’s just sent.’
She picked out a space amongst all the glasses and bottles, and set down her phone in the centre of the table, enabling all her friends who were hunched around to catch a glimpse. Depressing the OK button again she activated the back-lit screen.
‘Im gonna slit ur throte an burn ur fuckin hous down bitch.’
ooOoo -
CHAPTER TWO
DAY ONE OF THE INVESTIGATION: 18th March 2009.
Barnwell.
The bedside phone rang, jerking Hunter Kerr out of a deep sleep. Beside him Beth moaned her disapproval and rolled over. It took him a couple of seconds to pull his thoughts together. The alarm hadn’t gone off. It was still dark outside. That phone call could only mean one thing. A job. Bad news for some poor sod. He grabbed the handset and hoisted himself up.
He said softly, ‘DS Kerr.’
He hung onto every soft Scottish syllable the woman uttered. Her voice was steady, almost soothing, despite the nature of the message she was relaying. He stored everything to memory and as she finished he let her know that he was on his way. Then he ended the call.
Fumbling around in the darkness he returned the handset, and as carefully as he could, so as not to disturb his wife further, he dragged himself out from beneath the duvet. The chill in the room caught him unawares and gave him goose pimples. Shivering uncontrollably he pulled himself into a stretch and set off for the bathroom.
Manvers Terrace looked every inch the crime scene by the time Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr arrived. Halfway down the street a length of blue and white POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape spanned the road, barring his way: fixed between two lampposts, it performed Mexican waves on a sharp early morning breeze.
He pulled his black Audi Quattro into the kerb, slotting it behind three liveried police vehicles, an ambulance, its strobe lights still whirling, and a CID car, all of which appeared to be in a state of abandonment rather than parked. For a few seconds he surveyed the street. The incident had already brought a cast of onlookers out from their homes to collect and gossip on the pavements. Some of them were in their dressing gowns. The majority however, had on jogging pants and T-shirts, or sweatshirts; well prepared for their long haul of gawking. Two uniformed officers, in high visibility coats, were doing their best to shepherd the separate groups into one assembly. Hunter scanned a few of the faces, wondering how many of them would willingly come forward as witnesses given the wickedness of the crime.
Killing the engine, he reached behind and snatched his outdoor coat from the rear seat and pushed open the door. Nudging an arm through one sleeve he stepped out onto the road and cast his steel blue eyes around the scene again. The view stretching out before him wrenched back distant memories. In his early years he had lived only two streets away, and this had been one of the neighbourhoods he had frequented, before his parents had moved to their present home. As happy childhood images tumbled around inside his head it suddenly dawned on him just how long ago that had been; he had last set foot in this terrace twenty-three years ago, when he had been thirteen years old, and although the general appearance of the two rows of red-brick Victorian houses remained very much the same, he identified a number of cosmetic changes which had given the place a much needed makeover. For one, the old concrete stanchion lamps had been replaced by modern metal ones. Recalling how the area had been one of gloom, especially during the winter months, he saw that the street was now bathed in a warm ambient light. Secondly, and more significantly, the view at the head of the two rows had changed dramatically. Where there had once been wasteland and an old dilapidated set of buildings, which had once been a brickworks company, there was now a carpet of well-maintained grass. Metal bollards at regular placed intervals prevented vehicle access to the area and through it snaked a footpath towards a newly constructed industrial estate, the perimeter of which had been artistically landscaped. And though the look of the place interfered with his nostalgic memories he had to admit that it looked better like this.
As he switched his gaze back to the onlookers, finally being corralled into one group, he wondered if any of them before him were those from his childhood years and if so would they remember him.
The chilly breeze picked up a notch, brushing his face, blowing away the memories and snapping his thoughts back to the moment. He zipped up his padded coat, tucked his chin into his collar, dipped his hands into his pockets and made towards the cordon. Another uniformed officer, highly visible in a fluorescent jacket, guarded the barrier. Hunter recognised him, though he couldn’t recall his name, and so instead of saying something, gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he ducked beneath the tape to enter the outer cordon. As he passed by he saw the officer lift his clipboard and write upon it; Hunter knew that he’d been given the job of logging the comings and goings of everyone who visited the scene.
Straightening himself Hunter slid his left hand out of his pocket and glanced at his watch, mentally noting the time: 3:40 a.m. – thirty-five minutes earlier he had been tucked up in his warm bed, dead to the world.
Then up ahead he spotted the person who had dragged him out of his warm bed. Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate was striding purposefully towards him. He couldn’t help but notice that even at this time in the morning she cut quite a stylish figure in her knee-length camel coloured cashmere coat and calf length boots. As if she was on a night out. He fought back a smile. His new boss reminded him so much of his long-time working partner, DC Grace Marshall, who likewise never turned out anywhere without looking her very best – even to a gruesome murder scene.
Slugging his hands back into his coat pockets he picked up his heels. Striding to greet his Senior Investigating Officer he said, ‘Morning, boss.’
In her silky Scottish burr she replied, ‘Morning, Hunter, sorry to call you out. The night detective from District CID is here but this is one I think we should be involved in, it’s a repeat domestic.’
Hunter immediately knew that his SIO was referring to the fact that the address where the murder had occurred was one which had been repeatedly attended by the police as a result of reports, or complaints, relating to violence being perpetrated upon one or more of the occupants. He enquired, ‘The victim?’
‘I’m told it’s a lady by the name of Gemma Cooke. Twenty-nine-year-old. Lives at number thirty-four.’ She half turned and pointed towards the head of the street. ‘Duncan Wroe from SOCO arrived five minutes ago. He’s in there now.’ Detective Superintendent Leggate spun on her heels, flicked her head at Hunter – a gesture for him to join her – and set off in the direction she had indicated.
Hunter fell in beside her. ‘You said on the phone it was a stabbing.’
‘Aye. Repeatedly with a kitchen knife by the look of things! The young lady’s in a bit of a mess! I’ve only briefly viewed the body. Only got here myself ten minutes ago.’
‘Suspects?’
‘One line of enquiry – a former partner. The night detective is with a witness as we speak – a female neighbour. She made the three-nines call. She was woken up by the man banging and shouting at Gemma’s back door. Did a runner before we got here.’
‘Do we have his name and has he been circulated?’
‘Guy by the name of Adam Fields. He’s known to us, and he’s on the system as living at this address, so I’ve asked communications to see if they can come up with any other addresses where he might be. And I’ve got patrol cars out scouting around the area as we speak. The neighbour saw him running off towards the industrial estate so I’ve requested a dog to carry out a search.’
Number 34 was two houses from the end of the terrace. Looking at the front of the house sparked another image inside his head. Old Ma Briggs used to live here. Fearsome woman! She’d once clipped his ear for kicking his ball against her kerb. That was a long time ago now. He shook the memory away. A murder victim now occupied this house and he zoned his thoughts back to the present.
To the left of the front door a narrow passage led to the rear, and Hunter and Dawn took it. They emerged into a small yard, its cracked concrete surface partially lit by a shaft of fluorescent light, pouring through the gap of the open kitchen door.
Hunter spotted slithers of broken glass, glistening back like diamonds from the ground. A tiny, bright yellow, plastic evidence marker, bearing a black letter 1, lay among the shards. Removing his latex gloves from his coat pocket, he caught Dawn’s eyes and darted his gaze to the ground.
Returning an understanding look she nodded towards the debris. ‘We believe her attacker kicked the door in. It was like this when uniform got here.’
Slipping on his protective gloves Hunter strode over the broken glass onto the threshold. Edging the damaged door inwards with his elbow, he caught the unpleasant whiff of a strong coppery odour, and knew instantly that he was going to be faced by an awful lot of blood. Swallowing, he took a deep breath and held it. Before him several SOCO metal footplates, laid to protect the scene, paved the way into the house. He stepped onto the nearest plate and craned his neck around the door to get his first glimpse inside. A frenzied scene met his eyes. He hadn’t been wrong about the blood. The body seemed to swimming in a sea of it. A single, bloodied, smeared handprint scarred the white surface of an upright refrigerator, next to the corpse. Hunter’s eyes lingered on it for several seconds. The solitary graphic image pricked his conscience, ramming home the horror and torment of what had gone on here. He knew that this single snapshot would remain locked inside his head, gnawing away at him until he caught the sick bastard who had done this.
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