He stood, tucked away, amongst the trees, looking down over the fields, the focus of his prying eyes centred upon the end cottage on Street Lane – the scene of his latest triumph. He had arrived there five minutes earlier, just in time to watch the team of dark-suited police officers filing out through the garden gate. He now watched them making their way back to their marked van parked opposite the cottage. He checked his watch and guessed they were breaking for lunch. He also noticed the white forensic tent, which had been put up by the side door – the door ‘that bitch had opened up to him.’ He rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously. Boy, had he taught her a lesson. He couldn’t believe his luck when he had spotted her in the service station on the M1 yesterday afternoon. He’d bumped into her, on his way to the toilets, but he could tell from the brief glance she had returned that she hadn’t recognised him. That was when he had decided he wouldn’t get another opportunity as good as this. He knew that he might be taking a real chance following her home, but then, he told himself, that was what life was all about – taking chances. And he had gotten away with it. Again.
He slipped off a glove and dipped his right hand inside his camouflage jacket pocket, stopping when his fingers found what he was searching out. He fondled the coarse material. An electrifying buzz surged through him. The mask was his greatest weapon of fear. Every time.
Hunter stood by the boundary wall of the garden and spent an hour watching Task Force Officers continuing their fingertip search of the garden. By 2.00 p.m. they had reached the perimeter hedgerow and had not found anything of significance. He was bored, though he tried not to show it, offering an encouraging smile, whenever he caught the eye of one of the officers. It was all he could do. He felt helpless and he guessed they were as frustrated as he. Rolling back his cuff he checked his watch, making a mental note of the time, while wondering if anything material was happening back at the incident room. It was then he spotted Crime Scene Manager, Duncan Wroe, emerging from the forensic tent by the side door. Hunter shook down his cuff and tramped towards him.
Anxiously, he asked, ‘Anything?’
Duncan slipped down his face mask. As was usual he was sporting several days’ growth of facial hair. He wiggled a hand in front of Hunter. ‘Not sure. We’ve lifted a few sets of prints, but we’ve also got some glove marks around the entry door and jamb. Where the body was, we’ve got a definite shoe print and a few other partials of the same tread dotted around the room. Looks like her killer stepped in her blood. The tread looks as though it might be from a trainer, or something similar. It’s good enough to run through the system.’
‘Is that positive?’
‘It’s a start.’
‘Good.’
‘I thought you might say that.’ Duncan paused. His face took on a questioning look. ‘They’ve mentioned to me that the victim, possibly, was wearing a T-shirt which belonged to a girlfriend of yours who was murdered?’
‘Not possibly, Duncan – definitely. When she was last seen she had on this Bon Jovi T-shirt, from a concert we went to. She got it signed, and then embroidered the signature so it wouldn’t disappear. When they found Polly’s body she had this cloak thing wrapped around her and no sign of that T-shirt. No one knew what had happened to it.’
‘Until you found this victim.’
Hunter nodded. ‘I know it’s definitely Polly’s T-shirt she’s got on. It’s not something you forget.’
Duncan pursed his mouth, gave him a look of understanding and then said, ‘And so you’re working on the assumption that this victim here…’ He flicked his head back towards the cottage ‘…maybe, had something to do with your girlfriend’s murder.’
Hunter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m trying to keep an open mind, but you have to admit a big question mark is hanging over Elisabeth Bertolutti. At the moment though, nothing’s making sense.’
‘And you’re hoping I can make things clearer.’
‘It’d be nice if you could. It’s always been one of my ambitions to be able to tell Polly’s parents that we’ve caught her killer.’
‘You’ve mentioned her first name. I’ve been given the name Polly Hayes? Murdered in nineteen eighty-eight?’
Hunter nodded.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘No, it’s okay. Long time ago now. Fell in love with Beth and married her.’ He rolled his eyes to the sky, studied the scudding clouds for a few seconds and then returned his gaze. ‘I’d still like to catch Polly’s killer though.’
‘Yeah, I would as well.’
‘So, Duncan, do you have anything else?’
‘I think so. I just want to check back. You said the witness to this saw the murder on web-cam?’
Hunter nodded. ‘Yeah, it was Tony Bullars’ girlfriend who witnessed it. She was at a friend’s flat down in Richmond and was Skyping her when it happened.’
Duncan shook his head, ‘Christ man, that must have been a shocker.’ He tightened his lips. ‘Anyway, why I asked that, is because there’s no sign of any computer or laptop in the house. I’ve found its plug and lead. That was still in the socket next to a low table. I’ve dusted the table and there’s certainly a lot of scuff marks on the surface. Some of those look like the same glove marks I’ve found on the edge of the door and jamb. None of you lot have taken the computer as evidence?’
Hunter shook his head, ‘Nothing’s been removed or disturbed. As soon as we found her like that, we left everything as it was.’
‘Well, in that case then, it looks like whoever attacked her took it.’
Hunter screwed up his face. ‘What did I say about none of this making any sense.’
‘I echo that sentiment, Hunter. My initial thought was that this was maybe a burglary gone wrong, but now I don’t think so. The body was found on the floor next to the sofa, and her bag’s still on the sofa, with her mobile and purse still inside it. Cards and cash in the purse and a cheque book untouched. Also, there doesn’t appear to be any signs of a search. In fact, judging by the trail of bloodied footprints, the offender appears to have confined themselves to the room where Elisabeth Bertolutti was killed. And, from what I saw of the body yesterday, she didn’t have any injuries to suggest she put up any type of prolonged fight. Sure, she had a few defence injuries to her hands and forearms, but that was all. It was over and done with pretty quickly. If you’re wanting my opinion – given the location, and given the circumstances, and the fact that nothing’s been disturbed, and it’s only her laptop that’s been taken, I’d say this looks to me more like a planned attack for the precise purpose of taking her laptop.’
Hunter nodded. He agreed with the SOCO Supervisor’s assessment.
‘I’d be looking at why just the computer was stolen. Maybe there was something on it he wanted.’ After a short pause he asked, ‘What job did she do?’
Hunter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Something to do with buying and selling artwork. That’s what Bully told me. She and Bully’s girlfriend were in a partnership.’
‘I’m no aficionado of the art world, Hunter, but that doesn’t sound like the type of job which would get you murdered, does it?’
Mouth zipped, Hunter nodded in agreement with Duncan’s sentiment. Then he said, ‘And it doesn’t help me resolve what her links are to Polly’s murder.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’ Duncan placed a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, buddy.’
Hunter let out a deep sigh. He asked, ‘Am I okay to have a look round now?’
‘Yeah, we’re just about ready to start packing up. We’ve been all through the cottage. Everything evidence-wise is contained within the lounge area. The rest of the rooms appear to be untouched.’
Duncan lifted the entrance flap of the tent and Hunter slipped past him.
Stepping over the threshold onto the first protective plate, which had been set down on the carpeted floor, Hunter paused. A fusty, unpleasant coppery smell, caught at the back of his nose and throat. He immediately knew it w
as stale blood. Crinkling his nose and only taking shallow breaths, he spent a few moments journeying his eyes around the room.
With its whitewashed plaster walls and beamed low ceiling, he immediately saw that the place had retained its cottage feel. The sitting room was small and cosy. A large Chesterfield sofa, and a dark wood sideboard, took up most of the space. Next to the sofa was a low level table and beside that an upturned framed painting.
Hunter fought back the curious urge to pick it up and view it. Disturbing evidence.
A tiled, cast iron Victorian fireplace made for a striking centre piece. Spent ashes in the grate told him it was in regular use. Above the fireplace a large Venetian style mirror helped maximise the light coming in through the left hand side casement window. Around the walls was hung a selection of paintings. He noted that they all appeared to be framed oils, and were an eclectic mix of contemporary and 20th century canvases. He thought he recognised the style of some of the works. He told himself that when the time was right he would spend a bit more time looking around the collection. Right now though, he had to focus on this being a crime scene. And catching sight of the dark stain on the mocha coloured carpet, where Elisabeth’s body had lain the previous evening, was his stark reminder of that. Using the stepping plates he skirted past the sideboard to where a door led into a compact dining kitchen. Here, he stepped onto a stone-flagged floor. The room was cold. To Hunter’s left the full length of the wall was taken up by pastel green painted units, which were in keeping with the cottage feel. The floor cupboards flowed into an L-shape arrangement set beneath a facing window. It gave him a glimpse over the garden and out across the open countryside. Under different circumstances he would have said the view was even a more beautiful setting than his own outlook from his kitchen window back home, though today the bleak conditions presented only a panoramic palette of dull grey and brown tones. He dragged his eyes away. To the right a wooden staircase led up to the first floor. Hunter climbed the uneven stairs. The landing was long and thin and three doors led off it. The first door was ajar. He stuck his head around it. The room was smaller than he had anticipated. The bedroom walls were covered in pink floral print wallpaper. A large double brass bed and a stand alone wardrobe filled most of the space. He scrutinised the room for a couple of minutes but nothing stood out as warranting further inspection and so he moved on to the second door. This one was closed and he opened it inwards into an even smaller room. A small casement window allowed in a generous helping of light, warming cream painted uneven walls. It held only a single bed. The whiff of oil paint drifted across his nostrils, and he quickly realised why when he spotted the artist easel in the far corner. On it was a townscape featuring a section of bridge and a river. The scene reminded him of a town he had driven through in France. The painting was dull and dark and looked antique. On the floor next to it were several paintings stacked back-to-back. This room looked as though it served as a working studio as well as a bedroom. For a brief moment Hunter’s thoughts drifted away. He reflected on some of the paintings he had noticed hanging on the sitting room walls downstairs, and then rewound the conversation with Duncan a few minutes earlier and wondered if Elisabeth Bertolutti’s murder was to do with her job. He stored the thought for later. He stepped back into the hallway and checked out what was behind the last door. As he guessed it was the bathroom. It was bijou and fitted out with a white suite, which had seen better days, but it was clean and tidy. Determining that he’d got a feel for the place he returned back down the stairs and made his way outside to the garden.
Duncan Wroe was stepping out of his protective suit.
‘Is that you done then now, Duncan?’
‘Yes, there’s nothing else for me here. The scene’s all videoed and photographed. I’ll have copies sent across for your morning briefing, and I’ll get the prints and DNA samples labelled up by this evening and they’ll be sent off to the lab first thing tomorrow.’ He pulled out the last leg of his suit, folded it up and dropped it inside an evidence bag. He handed it over to Hunter. ‘I’d like to think I can clear up your girlfriend’s murder as well as this one.’
It was 6.00 p.m. before Hunter got back to the station. He walked into an MIT office sparse of detectives and relatively quiet.
DI Gerald Scaife was at his desk hunched over a pile of paperwork. Hunter could tell from the colour of the documents that they were witness information forms. He appeared to be slowly checking through them.
DS Mark Gamble, his counterpart, who supervised team two, was leaning against Gemma Cooke’s incident board, engaged in conversation with Isobel Stevens from the HOLMES team. Judging by their jerky head movements they appeared to be discussing the content of the information displayed upon the whiteboard. Hunter could see that more had been added to it since the morning briefing.
That couldn’t be said for Elisabeth Bertolutti’s incident board next to it. Except for her personal details and the two timeframe logs, Tony Bullars’ girlfriend witnessing the murder, and the discovery of her body by the police, nothing further had been written.
The only other person in the room was Barry Newstead, and he was in Grace’s seat, head down over her desk, his attention seemingly lost in the contents of a very thick file.
Hunter shucked off his coat and dropped it on the corner of his desk. The action startled Barry. His head shot up.
‘Oh, hey up, Hunter,’ he said, pulling off his reading glasses. ‘Just got back from the scene?’
Hunter dropped into his chair, nodded and let out a sigh.
‘Drawn a blank?’
‘Not exactly drawn a blank, Barry, but I haven’t got anything worth shouting about. Duncan’s found a couple of footprints in her blood near to where her body was. He thinks the marks are those of trainers or something similar. And he’s found glove marks at the point of entry. But other than that, zilch.’
‘What about house-to-house?’
‘That’s not brought up anything either. And that surprises me. I mean, you know what that place is like. The whole of Street is no more than a couple of dozen houses, and there’s only one road in and out and yet no one heard or saw anything until we arrived. It’s not even as if we can extend it either. I mean the nearest houses to the place are a couple of farms half a mile away. I’m hoping either forensics comes up trumps, or Grace and Bully can get something from their interview.’ He picked his coat off the edge of the table and swung it, matador style, over the back of his seat. ‘Have you heard from them yet?’
‘Spoke to Grace about half an hour ago. They’d just got back. Been a swine on the motorway apparently. They’re not expecting to be done before briefing.’
Hunter rolled up his eyes and clucked his tongue. ‘Anything from the gaffer?’
‘Last I heard she was still trying to find a place to run the incident. She was moaning to the DI earlier about it. And I think she’s lost the detectives she’d earmarked to help out because of a murder in Rotherham. A fourteen-year-old girl’s body was pulled out of the canal late last night. The rumour is she was mixed up in some kind of sex grooming thing. Could be a paedophile ring. They’re throwing everything at it. ‘
‘Just when we didn’t need it.’
‘I’ve known worse, mate.’
Hunter dropped his arms onto his blotter. ‘Anyway, what are you doing?’ Then he sarcastically added, ‘That looks like a lot of pages for you to be reading.’
Barry checked him with a scowl. ‘I can read joined up writing now you know.’
Hunter couldn’t help crack a grin. ‘Is it anything to do with this job?’
‘It is actually, Hunter.’ Barry collapsed the page he had been reading. ‘This is the report and summary file into Polly’s murder.’
Hunter locked onto Barry’s eyes. His colleague had captured his attention.
He tapped the bound file. ‘I did this for the District Detective Superintendent back in nineteen eighty-nine. It summarises every bit of evidence we had at the time – witne
sses and forensics. As you know we worked on it for almost eighteen months but got nowhere. The enquiries completely dried up and so the Super made the decision to wind it up.’ He flattened his hand atop the file. ‘Because I’ve worked on your girlfriend’s case, the gaffer told me yesterday afternoon that she was attaching me to your enquiry. She asked me to contact the Cold Case Unit and see if we still had the paperwork for it.’ Barry slipped away his hand and dipped it below his desk. Making a jabbing motion with a pointing finger he said, ‘One of the civilian investigators from the Unit dropped these off an hour ago.’
Hunter levered himself up from his seat and craned his neck across the adjoining desks. Neatly stacked on the floor beside Barry he saw six archive boxes.
Barry continued, ‘They’ve got everything. By sheer coincidence, Polly’s investigation was one of those which had been ear-marked to be re-examined. Apparently, they’ve been getting excellent results from the nineteen eighties cases of late. Especially with DNA hits. And hers was one of those they’ve still got all the exhibits for, so we just might get lucky, especially if her killer was not forensically aware – as most of them weren’t all those years ago.’ He raised one of his shovel-like hands and crossed his fingers. He held the pose for a good few seconds before dropping his hand and returning his eyes to the file in front of him. ‘It’s such a long time since I put this together that I’m just reacquainting myself with the job.’
Coming, Ready or Not Page 11