As he settled into his painting, occasionally looking out over the tranquil scene of old fisherman’s cottages sloping towards to the beck that fed the North Sea, Hunter swore he could feel the stress and tension of the last few weeks easing from his body.
Scrubbing in the large blocks of colour onto his canvas board and feeling the breeze brushing across his unshaven face at that moment he realised how glad he was at having been persuaded by his wife Beth, to take time off this weekend to spend some rare quality time with her and their two sons: At the last moment they had asked his mum and dad to join them in their rented cottage. When they had left home the day before yesterday he had selfishly double-checked he had packed his painting gear because he very rarely got the opportunity to paint these days, what with juggling his career and the needs of his family.
When he had seen the weather forecast last night he knew that this morning would be an ideal opportunity to fire off a small oil sketch.
He had managed to sneak out at dawn without disturbing them and as he worked his brushes across the stained canvas the vision of them all still tucked up in their beds, entered his head causing him to smile to himself.
He thought about work as well. He had left his team with a list of tasks, though he knew deep down they didn’t need them; the squad were more than capable of finishing off the case they had just been working on so intensely over the past five weeks.
He had left his partner DC Grace Marshall in charge, and he could visualise her now, mothering the team in her own inimitable way; organising the clearing of the incident room: stacking the house-to-house documentation, categorising witness statement papers, sealing the hundreds of exhibits, and storing all the gory photographs into box files ready for the Coroner’s Court inquest.
That last case had been the most intense and testing investigation he had ever been involved in. Not just since his appointment as Detective Sergeant into Barnwell Major Investigation Team but throughout his fourteen years as a detective.
When he had left the office two days ago, for this well earned break, they had removed the forensic tent from the back of the serial killer’s home after excavating the body of his fourth victim found in the garden.
The week previous to that the remains of two more of his teenage girl victims had been unearthed from shallow graves at an old colliery site.
They had known the names and ages of all of the girls who had suffered at his hands even before they had exhumed their remains; he had left behind such detailed accounts of every murder.
The killing spree of the now infamous ‘Dearne Vally Demon,’ as the press had so candidly dubbed him, had shocked them all and he knew would have lasting repercussions.
More so because so many revelations had come to light during the enquiry, some of which had not only involved colleagues, but unwittingly himself as well, and had caused him much personal angst over the last few weeks.
The phrase ‘tangled web’ came to mind as he fought once again to push the thoughts of the case out of his consciousness. He felt a chill shoot down his spine and shuddered.
Hunter returned his gaze to the view across the beck, spinning away from his daydream, noticing that the morning light had become less sharp over the landscape. He realised that in another ten minutes the artistic quality of the atmosphere would be gone. He returned to his sketch.
A few more brush strokes, and I’ll call it a day and get back for breakfast.
Ten minutes later, setting down his brushes, he smoothed his hands into the base of his spine and eased himself upright, teasing the tension out from his vertebrae and stretching himself up to his full six-foot-one. He took another look at his subject, raising his camera to capture one last image to use as reference; to enable him to finish the painting when he got another suitable moment back home, and that was when he spotted his father leaning against the railings, overlooking the beach.
Dad’s up early as well.
He clicked off a frame. As he did so he couldn’t help but notice a fleeting movement to one side of the Cod and Lobster pub. He was sure he’d seen a figure dart into the shadows. He zoomed in his lens as far as it would go forcing the focus of the camera towards the side entrance of the pub where he had last seen motion.
He’d been right. There was someone, slinking against the wall, craning his head around, staring in the direction of his father. His policeman’s sixth sense was telling him that something wasn’t right. He snapped off another frame but the zoom was at its maximum and the image was blurred. He could make out it was a guy with a bald or shaven head who appeared to be both squat and stocky.
He returned his gaze back to his father, still leaning on the metal railings, one foot resting on the bottom bar, staring out across the harbour. He could tell from his relaxed posture that he was unaware of the man hiding behind the wall only ten yards away. Hunter dug out his mobile from his jeans pocket and flipped up the screen.
Damn, he cursed to himself, no signal. He’d forgotten, the times he had been here he had never been able to get a signal.
He moved further to the edge of the Cowbar deciding to shout, hoping his father would be able to hear, and then he saw his dad spin around; the bald headed man had emerged from the shadows and was striding purposefully in his direction. The stranger halted just feet away and thrust out a hand, jabbing a finger inches from his dad’s face. Although Hunter couldn’t hear their body language was telling him that this was not friendly banter. He raised his camera again; shot off a succession of quick frames, not checking if the images were good or not. That was when he caught the quick movement of his father, slapping away the prodding hand and slamming his palm into the chest of the uninvited guest. He dumped the man onto his backside and then leaned over him, spearing his own finger, only a foot from the man’s face. Hunter could see there was a frank exchange of words between them, and then as quickly as it started it was all over. His father spun back around and marched off in the direction of their rented cottage.
The bald headed man picked himself up and dusted down his knees, reached into his pocket and took out his mobile phone. Seconds later in obvious disgust he pushed it away again.
“He can’t get a signal either,” Hunter muttered to himself.
Then as the man turned Hunter raised his camera again, quickly adjusted the zoom and rattled off several more frames, before the stranger disappeared from view.
Hands on hips, poised at the edge of the cliff, Hunter spent several more minutes scouring the cobbled High Street, straining his eyes into the narrow alleyways of the thrown together houses but he couldn’t pick up the sight of either his father or the incomer.
I need to get back and make sure everything’s OK.
With a sense of urgency he threw together his things.
* * * * *
Half-jogging, half-marching, breathing heavily, Hunter mounted the steep incline out of the old village and up towards the newer part of Staithes where their rented cottage was.
All the while he’d been keeping a watch for the bald headed man but the only people he had come across were the fishermen preparing their boats as he strode across the bridge overlooking the beck, and as he neared the top of the hill he could make out his father approximately a hundred yards ahead. He was ambling along, hands thrust deep in pockets, as if nothing had happened.
Hunter took a deep breath and shouted after him. His dad stopped, turned around and waited for him to catch up.
By the time Hunter had reached him he was gulping for air and beads of sweat were trickling from his hairline down the sides of his face, tickling his neck.
“I thought you were supposed to be fit son,” his father said sarcastically in his strong Glaswegian accent, pointing to the glistening sweat on his son’s brow.
Hunter set down his box easel and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, flicking the residue onto the footpath.
“I am. It’s that bloody hill, it’s a killer.” He took in several deep breaths. “I�
��ve been trying to catch you up to see what that was all about.”
“What was all about?” replied his father, blandly.
“You know what I’m on about. Don’t give me the all innocent. That argument you’ve just had with that bald-headed guy.”
“That wasn’t an argument. Just a case of mistaken identity. He thought I was someone else.”
“You don’t dump someone on their arse because of a case of mistaken identity.”
His father’s face flushed. “Leave it son, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“What do you mean it’s nothing to do with me? My dad smacking someone is nothing to do with me? I think so.”
His father held up a hand giving him the stop signal. “No you don’t think so at all. That was my business down there. I said leave it and I mean leave it.” He spun on his heels and marched away.
* * * * *
The mild August evening was giving way to a sheet of fine drizzle. It peppered the windscreen of Hunter’s Audi, obscuring the view of the main road through Sleights village. Hunter flicked on the wipers and the blades swished across, clearing the screen. As he began the steep incline up towards Blue Bank he could already see that his father’s car in front was almost at the top.
Hunter dropped down a gear, squeezed the accelerator and sped towards the steep summit.
Since they had set off from the cottage Hunter had been at odds with himself and Beth had sensed it, even checking to see if anything was wrong. He’d shrugged it off, telling her he was back to thinking about work. The fact was he couldn’t get out of his mind the episode he had seen earlier involving his dad and the bald headed stranger. What had made it worse was that his father had initially lied to him about the matter and then dismissed him when he had tried to probe deeper. He’d tried to catch his attention for the most part of the day but his dad had deliberately avoided eye-contact.
Something was not right, but he couldn’t think what. He thought he knew his father, but it felt recently as though he didn’t know him at all. All these years and the only time he had seen him lose his temper was several weeks ago when his dad had come to his aid when he was getting a good hiding from three family members of someone he had just put into prison. In fact on that occasion he remembered having to drag his dad away before he did one of the guys some really serious injury such was the viciousness of his onslaught.
This recent incident had brought all that flashing back and was unsettling him again. He clutched the steering wheel tighter willing his Audi faster up the hill. Upon cresting the brow of Blue Bank he eased off the accelerator and began cruising along the moorland road that passed through ‘Heartbeat’ country. Thirty yards in front it looked from the movement of nodding heads as though his parents were chatting happily. He wondered if his mum, like Beth, had sensed something was not quite right.
Because his concentration had been elsewhere he never saw the silver BMW until it shot past, so close that it rocked his car, almost catching the wing mirror.
For a split-second he lost control of the car, veering towards the grass verge, which he quickly corrected by braking sharply and swinging back into a straight line.
“The bloody idiot!” Hunter shouted, halting his tirade, remembering that Jonathan and Daniel, his two young sons, were in the back.
It appeared to him that the recklessly speeding BMW was on a collision course with the rear of his father’s car. He dropped into third gear and put down his foot, squeezing the accelerator further, trying to make ground so that he could take note of the car’s registration number.
Hunter watched the BMW swing onto the opposite carriageway and pull alongside his father and mother’s car. At first he thought the car was going to overtake but then the BMW snaked smashing its front end against the side of his parent’s car.
Their brake lights flashed on and Hunter could see blue smoke burning from beneath the wheels as the tyres protested on the wet glistening road. Chippings flew up from the surface as their car lurched sideways and began to bounce crab-like. It hit the damp moorland grasses at the road edge, throwing up huge tufts and began sliding out of control. Their car bucked into a ditch, bounced back out, and flipped over into an uncontrollable spin, roof and chassis rebounding into the moorland heather, only finally coming to a halt when it thumped into a peat bog.
Hunter stamped the brake pedal and the Audi slewed sideways onto the grassed verge.
He flung open his door ready for the sprint towards his parent’s crashed car. It felt as if everything had gone into slow motion.
He was conscious of Beth fishing around in her handbag trying to find her mobile, whilst on the back seat he caught a quick glimpse of the boys, straining against their seat belts, both pale-faced and displaying looks of horror. Switching his gaze he saw fifty yards ahead the BMW’s brake-lights flash on and it skewed to a halt.
He stopped mid-pace as the driver’s door flew open.
Hunter heaved a sigh of relief. He had initially thought this was going to be a hit-and-run; that this had been a deliberate act. Now that the car had stopped he guessed it was just bad driving and the driver was coming to help.
That was until he recognised the man who emerged. It was the bald headed man he had seen earlier back in Staithes arguing with his father.
The man took a long hard stare at Hunter, and with outstretched hand he reached across the roof of the car and pointed towards his parents upturned car. He fashioned two fingers together and cocked his thumb into a makeshift pistol, and jolting his hand he mimicked a firing action. He never took his eyes off Hunter, fixing him with a malicious grin before mouthing the words ‘POW!’
Then the bald headed man was leaping back into the car, and it squealed away throwing up a film of spray in its wake.
Hunter managed to clock the car’s registration before it disappeared over the brow.
Snatching his thoughts back into focus he shouted to Beth to dial 999 and then he kicking his heels sprinted across the front of his Audi and bounded across the moorland heather to his parents crashed vehicle, a plume of steam now masking its predicament.
* * * * *
Barnwell:
‘I just know this is going to be cold’ Katie Williamson said to herself as she stepped ungainly into the murky waters of Barnwell lake, disturbing the stillness of its surface with her finned feet as she sought out the security of the shale bottom; and she knew that once she became fully submerged it would be even colder. From a previous dive here she knew that in a few minutes the pain inside her head was going to be as intense and sharp as if she had eaten chilled ice cream.
“I’ll be only a couple of feet behind you - remember the signals?” her dive instructor and buddy Craig Palmer said.
Katie watched her dive-buddies eyes roaming around her body, though she knew he wasn’t eyeing her up – he was double-checking that all her diving equipment was in place.
Katie formed an ‘O’ shape with her thumb and forefinger. She could feel the resistance in the neoprene gloves as she forced them together.
“Good. And if you need to come up quickly?”
She stuck a thumb in the air and jabbed it skywards several times.
“Okay, final checks. This is your last dive and then we can sign your logbook up for your first qualification. Looking forward to it?”
“In these freezing waters, you’re joking”
She watched a smile crease her instructor’s face.
“You are such a wimp. Twenty minutes and the ordeal will all be over and this time next year you’ll be able to take a novice out yourself. Now check your air pressure and that your hoses are not tangled.”
Katie slotted the mouthpiece of her breathing regulator into her mouth, adjusting it slightly so that it fitted snugly between her teeth and lips. She purged the demand valve and a blast of concentrated air shot into her mouth, plumping out her cheeks. She swallowed, tasting the freshness and purity of the compressed air and formed another ‘O’ with her finger
s.
“Okay, mask on and let’s make our way to the centre of the lake.”
Katie lifted her bright pink facemask over her eyes, waited a couple of seconds to ensure that it wasn’t going to fog over and began to walk penguin-fashion over the loose stones and moss, edging slowly into the waters.
As she reached chest height she felt her stab jacket taking over her buoyancy, keeping her afloat and enabling her to flip her finned feet and push towards the middle of the lake. She could hear Craig splashing closely behind. After five minutes swimming Katie felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Okay this is it. Let the air out of your jacket and let’s drop to the bottom. We’re going to swing left and circle the lake, okay?”
She reached above the water and formed another ’O’ with her gloved hand and then began slowly releasing the air out of her life jacket, feeling herself sink below the surface, aided by additional lead weights fastened around her waist. From her last dive she knew that it wouldn’t be long before she hit bottom; the depth was only five metres.
Katie felt the slippery fronds of the reeds brush against her as she evened herself out and began sweeping through the gloomy depths, trying to acclimatise herself to her surroundings, pushing her hands forward to feel because it was so hard to see. Kicking hard she began her turn heading left. Her breathing was steadying and she was surprised that the water wasn’t as cold as she had expected.
This is not going to be too bad after all, she said to herself, dragging one hand along the silt bottom and beginning to take in her immediate surroundings given that her eyes had adjusted in the dimness.
Katie felt a sudden tap on her calf and guessed Craig wanted her to take in another turn. She pulled her wrist towards her face and checked her watch. They had been diving for just over ten minutes.
Half way there already, time has flown.
With a kick she propelled herself left again and adjusted her movement with a graceful flip of fins.
Then her knee hit something, taking her by surprise. Something that was soft and pliable. Something that cushioned her blow and which she knew was alien to the environment. Katie stopped in her tracks almost falling onto the object. She spun around and began seeking for her dive-buddies attention. She focussed on his facemask and began waving frantically. Confident she had captured his attention she jabbed her thumb downwards.
Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 2