Within the room chairs began scraping back as members of the MIT team pushed themselves away from their desks to begin the day’s work. Dawn Leggate clapped her hands and brought their attention back. ‘I want to reiterate to everyone about Adam Fields. Until I’ve briefed Firearms, any actions to arrest him are on hold.’
Driving back from Sheffield, Hunter’s BlackBerry, seated in the hands-free mounting bracket on the centre console, rang. He glanced at the screen, saw Barry Newstead’s name listed and with a nod of his head indicated for Grace to take the call.
She hit the receive button. ‘Hi Barry, it’s Grace, Hunter’s driving.’
‘Where are you?’ There was an exited intonation in Barry’s voice.
‘We’re on the Parkway, just coming towards the Rotherham turn-off. We’ve been to get the CCTV footage of Division Street.’
‘How long will it take you to get back?’
‘Thirty minutes. Something like that.’
‘Can you meet me in the car park at the back of the marketplace?’
With a sideways glance, Hunter met his partner’s gaze. They exchanged puzzled looks.
Hunter piped up, ‘What for, Barry?’
‘I don’t want to say too much over the air. It’s about our prime suspect.’
As the call ended Hunter changed gear, floored the accelerator and swung the car into the outside lane.
They made it back to Barnwell in a little over twenty minutes. Hunter screeched into the car park at the rear of the marketplace and rocked to a halt. Today wasn’t a market day so the car park was relatively quiet and they quickly spotted one of the office pool cars tucked into a bay at the top of the large public parking area. Hunter eased off the brake and coasted to where Barry had parked.
Easing open the door and then using it as support Barry tugged himself out from the driver’s seat and piled into the back of Hunter’s car. Beads of perspiration had formed between his hairline and brow. With a slash of his fingers he sliced them away.
‘What’s with the cloak and dagger stuff?’ Hunter said, half turning in his seat and glancing over his shoulder.
‘A snout of mine gave me a bell half an hour ago about Adam Fields. Asked me if I could meet him.’
‘Have you told the gaffer?’
‘She’s out, doing her briefing with the Firearms Team. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Anyway it’s only meeting a snout. I don’t know yet what he’s gonna tell me. All he said on the phone is that Fieldsy had rung him last night and asked him if he had a reasonably priced car, which was roadworthy.’
Hunter screwed up his forehead and offered Barry a scrutinising look.
‘My snout runs a small garage out of a lock-up next to the canal. Does up old bangers and knocks them out cheap. He’s heard that he’s on the run for murder and doesn’t want to get involved so asked me if I was interested in setting something up to catch him. Told him we might be and so he asked me if I could meet him in the pub at lunchtime.’ Barry shuffled his weight and slipped one leg out through the open rear door. Planting it firmly on the ground he heaved himself out of the car. He called back, ‘Anyway it gives us an excuse for having a pub lunch.’
Leaving their unmarked vehicles in the car park they traipsed down the hill towards Barnwell’s main shopping centre. Barry made up the rear and Hunter and Grace had to keep slowing for him to catch up. As they neared the pedestrian crossing, opposite the pub, where Barry had arranged to meet his informant, Hunter gave him a sideways glance. He noticed several bands of sweat trickling down one side of Barry’s face, collecting along his jaw line, and caught him snatching at air, breathing heavily. He studied his old colleague carefully. It was the first time Hunter had taken note of how out of shape Barry had become. Whereas he had always seen him as a big heavily made man, he had also seen him as one who had always been able to carry that weight comfortably and still be active. In fact in the past that bulk had been to his advantage. Back in Hunter’s early CID days, he had seen Barry use his big powerful fists on more than one occasion to mete out his own brand of justice. But then, that had been sixteen years ago. Now, he knew that Barry had not long had his fifty-sixth birthday and giving him a second look it seemed as if that extra weight was now telling on his health.
The beeping and flashing green man dragged Hunter’s thoughts back. He stored his contemplations, about speaking with Barry about his well-being, until later, when they were alone and he changed focus. Switching brainwork he knew how important it was to capture the fugitive Adam Fields. Then they could put this investigation to bed. Rubbing his hands together vigorously in anticipation of a good outcome with this informant he stepped onto the pedestrian crossing and aimed for the pub.
The Horseshoe was a large Victorian double-fronted building on High Street. It had always been a pub, and one which had always been a hive of activity, especially on market days. Two years previously it had been taken over by one of the decent pub chains and been completely refurbished. It now served guest beers and good meals at a reasonable price and therefore was a popular place for those who worked locally. When Barry had told him where they were meeting his informant, Hunter had to agree it was as good a place as any to meet; occasionally in the past he had walked into a pub to meet with an informant and he might as well have had a placard hung around his neck advertising he was from CID. At least in this place he knew they would be absorbed amongst the crowd of local white-collar workers.
Hunter pushed open the glass-panelled door and let Grace and Barry through first. The pub was busy and noisy. Hunter eyed the clientele. It was as he thought – the majority of punters here were on lunch break from their place of work. Then he switched his gaze, following Barry’s eyes as he strafed the interior.
Suddenly Barry nudged Hunter’s arm and said, ‘He’s over there,’ and broke away to his right.
Ten yards away, seated behind a table, cradling a pint glass, which contained the dregs of a beer, was a man in blue overalls. He looked to be in his late fifties with close-cropped, grey-almost-white, hair. As they approached Hunter spotted an immediate change to the man’s expression. His face took on an agitated look. Releasing his glass, the man half-raised himself and leaned forward across the table. As they landed within earshot he rasped, ‘Barry, he’s here. Adam Fields. He turned up ten minutes ago. I couldn’t ring you.’ Barry’s informant switched his gaze, glaring out over their shoulders to a place somewhere behind them. ‘He’s just gone to the toilet,’ he nodded sharply, still staring beyond them.
Hunter spun on his heels, fixing his eyes upon a woodgrain door signposted as leading towards the ladies and gents toilets. He grabbed hold of Barry’s coat sleeve. ‘Back me up,’ he ordered and set off swiftly across the carpeted floor. He called back over his shoulder, ‘Grace, call it in.’
The first door Hunter shouldered took them into a tiled corridor. Behind him, he could hear Barry scurrying to catch up. Hunter spied that the gents was through a second door to the right. As he reached it he slowed his pace, took in a deep breath and palmed it open slowly. Immediately, to his left, were three hand basins and above them, fixed to the wall, was a bank of mirrors. In their reflection he saw man-mountain Adam Fields. He was standing in front of a urinal and he appeared to be in the middle of taking a piss. Apart from Fields the room was empty. Balling and squeezing his right hand into a tight fist, Hunter rocked back on his heels, took in another deep breath and launched himself through the door.
Swinging his arm back beyond his waist and putting all of his weight behind it he arced it forwards. Adam Fields didn’t have time to react. The targeted punch thumped into the region over his right kidney, felling him at his knees and propelling him forwards, causing his groin to collide with the porcelain urinal. He let out a deep agonising cry. In another swift movement Hunter lashed in his right foot and swept Fields’ feet from beneath him. The momentum sent him sideways, crashing his head against another urinal. He was unconscious even before his face collided with th
e tiled floor. As Adam Fields hit the deck Hunter caught a flash of something fly out from the rear waistband of Fields’ jeans and heard the distinct rattle of metal ring against porcelain. Quickly diverting his eyes he sought out the cause of the clattering sound.
From behind him Barry appeared, gasping and clawing for air. Red-faced he pointed to an object resting against tiled skirting. ‘Fucking hell!’
It immediately dawned on Hunter what Barry was pointing at; the metallic, satin finished object was a handgun. He thought its shape resembled that of a Glock semi-automatic. Spinning his blue eyes away from the shooter he settled them on his prisoner’s prostrate figure. Blood was frothing from his mouth and nose.
Barry rested his arms on his hips, dropped his head onto his chest and filled his cheeks. Exhaling loudly, he said, ‘I can’t fucking believe you’ve just done that.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘Remind me never to back you up again. I’m getting too old for this lark.’ Shaking his head, Barry added, ‘Do you know, you’re fucking crazier than I used to be. I mean I took chances, but never with an armed man.’
Hunter’s eyes rested back on the gun. He could feel the rush of adrenalin bolting through him, but this wasn’t a roller-coaster surge of adrenalin. This one made him shake. Suddenly he felt sick.
Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate leaned halfway across her desk, supporting herself on her hands. Her face was thrust forwards and it had a thunderous look.
‘What were my last words this morning?’ She spat out in her thick Scottish accent.
At a safe distance, on the opposite side of the desk, Hunter stood before his SIO, back straight, hands down by his side. He’d already had his ears bullied with a tirade of vitriolic expletives for the past two minutes and he was wishing this to end.
‘You made me look a right twat in front of the Firearms Commander.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Sorry – sorry. Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself.’
‘But it was a replica.’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck whether the gun was a replica or not. You disobeyed an order.’ She pushed herself back in her chair. ‘And don’t you dare try to pull the wool over my eyes with that answer, DS Kerr. You couldn’t have known when you tackled him that the gun wasn’t real. You didn’t just put yourself in danger. You put a colleague’s life at risk as well.’
Hunter offered her his best contrite look. He just wanted to be out of here. ‘It won’t happen again, boss.’
She speared a finger towards him. ‘It had better not, because I’ll tell you here and now you’ll be off the team. Savvy? I want players not mavericks. I want people who can take orders. Do I make myself clear?’
Hunter nodded.
She took a deep breath. ‘Now get out of my office before I change my mind.’
Hunter turned towards the door. As he opened it and stepped out onto the corridor his SIO called to him, ‘And you can make amends by doing your job and getting Adam Fields to cough.’
Hunter entered the office, faced flushed with embarrassment and smarting from his rollicking. He could feel all eyes on him as he sauntered towards his desk. As he sank down in his chair he aimed a glance across his desk to where his partner sat.
Raising her eyebrows, Grace offered back an ‘are you okay’ look.
Tight-lipped, leaning across, he said in a hushed tone, ‘It’s a long time since I’ve had a bollocking like that.’
Grace shrugged her shoulders, ‘Are you surprised. If that gun had been real and given a different scenario you might not be here now.’
Dejectedly, he returned, ‘Yeah, okay.’
‘And then I’d have been looking for a new partner. And I’ve only just got used to working with the crap one I’ve got.’
Hunter watched Grace’s mouth curl up at the corners. He exchanged grins.
Grace picked up a file in front of her and flung it across their desks to Hunter. ‘Come on, Sergeant, stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ve got a murder to solve.’
Hunter and Grace checked in with the Custody Sergeant before they went into interrogation. They were informed that Adam Fields had been examined thoroughly by a doctor and had been given a clean bill of health. His only injuries were a chipped tooth, and severe bruising to his face, especially around his nose and eyes. They also learned that he had opted for the duty solicitor and was currently engaged in a privileged briefing session in an interview room.
Hunter always found himself getting wound up at this stage. This was where he knew the law prevailed but in his eyes Justice failed.
Hunter cursed beneath his breath, for he could visualise what was going on behind the closed interview room door right now. The solicitor would be explaining in detail exactly what evidence they had against him and would be advising Fields on what precise answers he should give to the easy questions and that when things got difficult to merely state ‘no comment’; it was the rules of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, brought in to protect the Human Rights of the prisoner. In effect it prevented the police springing any surprises upon the suspect during interrogation. Hunter had done enough interviews throughout his career to know that villains were already well-schooled enough in the art of mendacity and it was his view that the last thing the guilty should be given was the protective cloak of any government legislation to help them evade prosecution.
The sudden opening of the interview room door brought Hunter back from his ruminations. He caught Grace’s eyes, flicked his head sideways and set off down the corridor. As he swept into the uncomfortably warm room he was greeted by a strong smell of stale urine. He knew where it was coming from. Adam Fields had been in the midst of taking a piss when Hunter had steamed into him and he had wet his trousers. The pungent stench had nowhere to go in the small room. Hunter crinkled up his nose and looked across the table. His eyes were met by a basilisk stare from Adam Fields, who was pointing at his own face.
‘Are you the fucker who did this?’
Hunter saw that he was sporting two black eyes and his nose was red and swollen. Splashes of dried blood caked the front of a grey designer T-shirt. He fought back the urge to smirk.
‘If I hadn’t done what I did, you and I might not be having this conversation. I saved you from getting shot, didn’t I?’
‘It was a fucking replica.’
‘A gun is a gun to a police firearm’s officer. In my book you got off quite lightly.’
Adam Fields gave a snort of derision and then winced as the pain registered in his nose. Pushing his muscle-bound frame back in his seat he folded his arms in a gesture of defiance.
Hunter placed Gemma Cooke’s case file on the desk and seated himself opposite Fields and his solicitor.
Grace took up the spare chair, next to the tape recorder. Removing a pack of blank evidence cassette tapes from her pocket, she tore away the plastic film securing them and slotted the two tapes into the machine.
Unfastening the cuffs of his shirt, Hunter slowly rolled back the white cotton to reveal his own muscular forearms, and then rested them over the blue evidence folder, entwining his fingers.
He opened, ‘You’ve already been briefed by your solicitor?’ He looked across and caught the nod offered by Adam Fields’ legal representative. He had met this solicitor during other previous encounters with prisoners and knew that he wasn’t one who would continually interrupt proceedings so long as he stuck to the procedures. That eased Hunter’s tension. He unlocked his fingers and flipped open Gemma Cooke’s file.
Grace switched on the recording machine. A loud buzz resonated for a few seconds and then stopped, throwing the room into silence.
Hunter fractured that stillness by clearing his throat and introducing himself and Grace and followed that up by voicing the customary preamble to taped recorded interviews. He ended his opening sentence by reminding the prisoner that he was still under caution.
Coming, Ready or Not Page 5