Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr)

by Fowler, Michael

  For a few seconds whilst waiting for the programme to load, her mind wandered - mulling once more over the events of the 12th August, and she felt her chest beginning to tighten. As the blood pounded somewhere inside her head, causing a rushing sensation in her ears, she took several deep breaths in an attempt to retake control. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. She hated the sensation these attacks brought and wondered if they would ever go away.

  ‘This isn’t fair. I want my life back.’

  After just a couple of deep breaths she could feel the tight band across her chest slacken. She steadied herself and left-clicked the computer mouse, opening up the document folder titled ‘Inquest doc.’ She’d already drafted most of it and she speed-read back over the summary to the point where she had ended the report the previous day. Closing her eyes she thought about the final points she needed to add. Less than a minute later she snapped open her eyelids, scanned the screen again, flicked the cursor to the point where she needed to pick up, clicked her mouse and began typing.

  * * * * *

  Footfalls along the corridor outside the department broke into her deep concentration. She glanced at her watch; the last hour had flown. The first detectives were beginning to filter into the office. With the opening of the doors a new aroma assaulted her nostrils; the greasy smell of bacon sandwiches from the canteen. Her stomach rumbled and she realised how hungry she was; she had given breakfast a miss at home that morning.

  Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars, her team members, were amongst the first in. She acknowledged them with a smile and a nod. Mike was making for the office kettle. He stopped in mid-stride catching Grace’s gaze and mimed the act of pouring a cup into his mouth, silently mouthing the words ‘want one?’ She nodded gratefully and began bundling up her papers. Less than a minute later Mike was clonking down a mug of freshly brewed coffee in front of her as she was closing down her computer. She caught sight of his cheery well-rounded face. “Right let’s get ready for briefing” she announced more to herself than to Mike and saved the file before closing down the computer.

  Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw had the role of SIO again. He stood in front of the incident boards flicking through the notes belonging to DI Scaife. He peered over the top of his spectacles and swelled his muscular chest straining his crisp white shirt. Grace knew that the Superintendent was a man who regularly maintained his fitness; she knew that like Hunter he worked out regularly despite his workload. Snapping the journal shut he cleared his throat.

  “Good morning ladies and gents,” he began. “In the words of the old adage it never rains but it pours, we have just cleared up one set of nasty murders and now we have another particularly grisly one turn up.” Pausing, he added, “This is playing havoc with my budget.”

  There was a ripple of laughter around the room.

  He tapped the incident board behind him over the photograph of the bloated grotesque face from the mortuary shots. “Okay on a serious note, our job is to find out who murdered this young Asian woman. As you can see from the decomposition she is unrecognisable. She was found stripped naked and with no marks of identification. We have her DNA and we have her fingerprints but at this moment in time we do not know who she is or anything about her life.” He tapped another photo. “But what we do know is that three to four weeks ago she was badly beaten, raped, had her throat cut, was bundled inside a rug and then dumped in the bottom of Barnwell lake where she lay until yesterday afternoon when two divers on a training schedule found her.”

  ‘Succinctly put’ thought Grace to herself. She realised that in just those few words he had made short shrift of the forensic Pathologist’s two hour post mortem.

  “Our main priority is to find out who this young lady was. We also have quite a wide time frame between the murder and the body being found and as yet we don’t know where she was killed, only where she was dumped. We are up against it, but we have all been here before and I know you lot will fill in the gaps.” He tapped the incident board again, glancing behind him before resetting his gaze on the faces of the detectives. “What we do have is the rug she was found wrapped up in and the weapon that was used to slit her throat. We can all see that these appear to be foreign and these are our leads at the moment so if no one has any questions DI Scaife will give you your tasks so you can get out there and clear this up.”

  There were no questions; the briefing broke up and the MIT detectives picked up their assignments for the day.

  Grace was still acting DS; the DI told her that Hunter had been in touch and he wouldn’t be back for at least another three days. She collared Mike and Tony.

  “Right you two we’ve got the job of checking missing persons because of our experience with the last set of murders and also finding out about the murder weapon, especially to see if there are any local outlets who sell it.” She snatched her jacket from off the back of her chair, picked up the car keys and slung them towards Tony. “Bully you’re driving,” she said and strode purposefully towards the doors.

  * * * * *

  North Yorkshire:

  Hunter paced the hospital corridors. He was frustrated and tired. He had slept very little the previous night; they had managed to book a family room in a motel not too far from the hospital and he had spent a restless night going over the events in his head. The more he had mulled over the incident the more he made connections with yesterday morning’s clash between his father and that stranger and this aftermath.

  Now he had another long day before him at the hospital unable to make any in-roads into finding out who was responsible for doing this to his parents.

  Beth and the boy’s were flitting between Ward Two, where his mum was ‘comfortable and stable,’ and the side ward where his dad was resting. He was having trouble being in the same room as his father; he wouldn’t say anything. He had tried to be patient in his approach but he knew his dad was holding back on some secret and was refusing to give it up. It had got to the stage where his father lay with eyes shut, refusing to answer any of his questions.

  Several times he had tried to call the number he had rung last night but it was now switched off, and on divert and his head was swimming around in circles.

  He strolled down to the drinks machine on the floor below even though he hated drinking out of plastic cups and dropped his loose change into the slot. They were out of tea, milk one sugar. He kicked the bottom panel and growled. Then his mobile rang. He viewed the screen; ‘withheld’ flashed up; he guessed who this was – he would be ringing from one of the office phones.

  “Hello – Hunter” he answered.

  “Hunter it’s me.”

  He recognised the broad South Yorkshire dialect immediately. “Have you got anything for me?”

  “Afraid not. I’ve made quite a few phone calls but there’s not a whisper down here. I also went round to all of the Paynton’s houses, and the locks-ups they have access to, but there’s no sign of a silver BM. And everyone I spoke with yesterday have never seen any of the family in one. I’ve checked with Intelligence and nothing with that part registration features on our system. It’s a complete blank at the moment but I’ve put a few feelers out so if I turn up anything I’ll bell you. Okay?”

  Despondently Hunter thanked him and rang off; though he knew shouldn’t feel down. If any villains from his ‘back yard’ had carried this out then he knew his source would get to hear. He would have to rely on that for the moment - well until he could get back to base and then he would shake some trees himself.

  - ooOoo –

  CHAPTER THREE

  DAY FOUR: 27th August.

  Glasgow.

  Fraser Cullen kept in the shadows, pressing himself against the crumbling brickwork of the high walls at the entranceway to the derelict car park. He lit up another cigarette; he’d only just finished the last one – but then he was more nervous than normal.

  He pulled up the collar of his jacket. Was it his imagination or had the temperature dropped s
ince his arrival half an hour ago? It had to be the dampness of his surroundings he told himself.

  Every time he heard the sound of a car’s engine he stuck his head out from his hiding place and scoured the partly cobbled street of Sauchiehall Lane. Fraser glanced at his stolen designer watch; he’d give them another ten minutes then he was off.

  He almost missed the silver BMW; it coasted past, hardly making a sound. He took a final drag on his cigarette, dropped the burning remnant, and scrunched it underfoot, before he stepped out into the lane.

  The car reversed and pulled alongside Fraser, its wheels scrunching over loose chippings, the rubber walls of the nearside tyres squealing as they scraped against the kerb. Fraser bent down dispersing the smoke from his lungs as the passenger window slid down.

  The front passenger wafted a hand in front of his mouth and nose. “Fucking hell do you have to do that?” he exclaimed.

  The deep gravelly tones in the voice of the man had not changed, not even after all this time thought Fraser: Though his appearance had. The hair had been ravaged by grey and he couldn’t help but notice the flash of the scar that ran from the bridge of his nose down towards his jaw. The occupant of the front seat had been a hard bastard when he known him thirty odd years ago now he looked even harder.

  “What have you got for me then Fraser?”

  Fraser lowered himself, resting a hand on the car door, levelling his eyes and meeting the gaze of the front passenger. “I found him Billy. It wasn’t easy mind,” he replied in his broad Glaswegian dialect. “You’ll find him drinking regularly in Lauders on Sauchiehall Street. He’s there most days. Goes in about four in the afternoon, and usually leaves about half seven. He comes down this way to get to the subway off Bath Street. I’ve followed him three times now without him knowing. And there’s nae CCTV,” he said darting his eyes around the high buildings which lined both sides of the narrow lane.

  Billy smiled, reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a handful of Scottish notes. “There’s a ton Fraser. Now piss off and don’t tell anyone we’ve met.”

  Before Fraser could even reply the smoke glass window was sliding up and the rear wheels were spinning and chewing up the loose gravel as the BMW lurched towards the main road.

  * * * * *

  Alistair McPherson stood at the front steps of Lauders bar tapping the filter of his cigarette on its packet before popping it into his mouth. He lit it in cupped hands; it was an old habit from his army days. He inhaled deeply and his chest shook sending out a spluttering cough. It lasted several seconds before he banged his chest and brought it under control.

  Jesus these things are going to kill me one day.

  He stood for a good minute taking in the sights and sounds of Sauchiehall Street; how it had changed over the years. It had gone upmarket since his time of working here. It was now a busy thoroughfare full of high-class shops and many of the gracious houses had been converted into offices. He stepped onto the pavement and began his steady meander home. He would pick up his fish supper on the way back he told himself. He turned the corner into Sauchiehall Lane, heading for the subway which would take him towards his home. As he did so he heard the car pulling up behind him; guessed it would be someone wanting directions; lots of tourists got confused by the traffic system. He stepped to one side, waiting whilst it drew level and removing the cigarette from his mouth he held it in one cupped hand. The electric window coasted down. Alistair turned sideways to talk to the driver but could only see his chest and shoulders. He slowly bent down to get a better view only to be met by a piercing stare from the scar-faced passenger leaning across the shaven-headed driver. There was something about that face that registered.

  “Remember me Mr McPherson?” said scar-face.

  The voice was deep and menacing and a wave of panic shot through Alistair.

  * * * * *

  The DOA – ‘dead on arrival’ call was logged at seven-fifty pm; discovered by a young waiter who had slipped out through the rear emergency doors of the restaurant into the derelict car park for a ‘smoke-break.’ He’d had the shock of his life when he had tripped over the crumpled mess. He thought at first it had just been a pile of rags; people were always dumping their rubbish here, but then he’d spotted the thick congealed blood beneath his feet. The sight of the mush, which had once been a head, had almost made him sick.

  He had immediately dialled 999 on his mobile and asked for the ambulance service; because the body was close to the fire stairwell he had assumed that the dead guy had accidently fallen. Then he’d fled back inside the restaurant and dragged out his boss to bear witness to what he had found.

  The ambulance crew who turned up, knew, from a brief examination of the deceased, that the horrific injuries inflicted upon the man’s head had not been the result of an accident, and they radioed in an immediate request to their control for police attendance.

  The first officers on scene were there in a matter of minutes; Pitt Street police station was only three hundred yards away.

  The uniform Sergeant stooped over the prostrate body trying to make out the facial features. There was little doubt the man had taken a severe hammering, his head and face was one mass of blood and his forehead had been caved in; he was barely recognisable.

  “Looks like somebody’s tap-danced on his head,” he said, glancing at his colleague, whilst slipping on a pair of latex gloves.

  He began to search through the dead man’s pockets. He had already determined that if they could get some form of ID it would be a start. He found the man’s wallet in an inside jacket pocket and began rummaging through the cards. In the back section he found a laminated National Association of Retired Police Officers membership card. It grabbed his attention. He stared at the name and then at the photograph. He shot a glance back at his team-mate, his face taking on a sudden look of disbelief.

  “Bloody hell I know this guy,” the sergeant exclaimed. “He was in CID at Shettlestone nick.”

  By eight-fifteen pm, the full length of Sauchiehall Lane had been cordoned off; a major enquiry was underway.

  - ooOoo -

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAY SIX: 29th August.

  Barnwell:

  Grace took a final look over her notes and then scanned the faces of her colleagues seated around the room. MIT detectives were waiting for her input. She had been given centre stage this morning; Detective Superintendent Robshaw had been called into headquarters to liase with the press office; he had a meeting booked with the local press and regional TV news teams to give an overview of the murder investigation and make an appeal for witnesses.

  Grace’s stomach turned. Pangs of nervousness drifted from her gut up into her throat. This was her first up-in-front briefing and she was outside her comfort zone. Her brown eyes jumped between Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars. They were giving her their thumbs up, a ‘you-can-do-it-girl’ signal. It made her realise how much support her two team mates had given her during her spell of acting Sergeant. She returned them a grateful smile.

  The three of them had not stopped over the past two days in their attempts to identify the murder weapon. She’d carved up the jobs between them. They had searched the Internet, made dozens of phone calls, and finally they had teamed up to trawl the many and varied Asian artefact and martial arts shops in both South and West Yorkshire. Their efforts had paid off. Late the previous morning they had found their answer in Bradford, in a small warehouse that sold Asian ceremonial weapons; more for show than for use. Along with a brief history of its use she had watched in amazement as one of the young male storekeepers had given them a demonstration in its application. However, there it had ended. Grace had requested a list of people who had purchased such a weapon, but the owner had explained that they only dealt in cash and kept no till receipts. Even with Mike’s veiled threats of letting the tax man know of their accounting methods, it still hadn’t take them any further forward, other than to provide the stores distribution outlet over in Pakistan
. Grace and her team settled on a free gratis replica of the murder knife and left.

  One light moment in their exhaustive pursuit had been when they ran into DCs Andy France and Paula Clarke from the other MIT team who were also in Bradford making enquiries into the Asian rug into which the girl’s body had been bundled. Their bumping into one another resulted in a pub lunch in Holmfirth before driving back to the office. It had given them all a well-needed break from the stresses of the investigation. The conversation over lunch got around to Hunter and the hit and run involving his parents. As she had left the pub Grace had made a mental note to ring him later in the afternoon to check how his parents were getting on and to update him on the murder enquiry.

  As she perched herself on the corner of her desk ready to feed her information into the morning’s briefing she remembered she still hadn’t made that call; it had completely slipped her mind because of her workload.

  I’ll text him straight after briefing, she reminded herself.

  She cleared her throat, picked up the replica murder weapon that had been lying on the desk beside her and began her input.

  “A bagh nakh.” She held up the knife with its curved angled blade and two brass knuckles fixed into the hilt. Behind her pinned to the incident board were the scenes of crime photo of the weapon, which had been recovered with the girl’s body. Her replica was an identical match to the killing instrument on the photograph.

  “An Indian hand-to-hand weapon designed to fit over the knuckles or concealed under and against the palm. This is a variant of the traditional weapon that consisted of four or five curved blades and is designed to slash through skin and muscle, mimicking wounds inflicted by a wild animal. As a matter of interest the bagh nakh features in many of the kid’s video games they play these days. It was originally developed primarily for self-defence, but in this case, as we know, it was used to attack and slit the throat of our young murder victim.” She explained how they had got hold of the replica. “Unfortunately even though this is a strange knife to our eyes amongst the Asian population it is not. There are a number of outlets for this weapon both in this country and abroad and at this moment in time we are unable to find out who purchased one. However the detective superintendent in his TV appeal will be showing this to see if it will jog anyone’s memory.” Grace placed the knife beside her on the table and went on to explain that they still had no positive identification of the body. She told them how she had gone back into the National Missing Persons database but such was the putrefied state of their victim that it was hampering the search parameters, and despite the DNA database having some six million indexes and the National Fingerprint Database having eight million individuals they still had no trace. “We can only hope that the Super’s TV broadcast will give us a lead,” she finished and dropped down off the edge of the desk and returned to her seat so that DS Gamble from the other team could finish off the mornings briefing.