Cold Death (D.S.Hunter Kerr)

by Fowler, Michael

  She picked up a cloth from a tabletop next to her and wiped some oily residue from her hands. “Another couple of days and I’ll have the face finished. Then it’ll undergo a paint job. I can match the skin tone exactly from the body colour. Finally I’ll add a similar style and colour hairpiece and you should have a vision of your victim. It won’t be an exact portrait but the main features will all be there to enable you to have as near a match as possible for identification purposes.”

  Hunter thanked her. This is what he had been waiting for. He knew from experience that having a name for the victim always gave an enquiry an extra dimension; family; friends; associates and a background which provided a wealth of additional information to point them in the direction of the suspect, or in this case suspects, thought Hunter. He couldn’t wait to see Frankie’s completed work.

  -ooOoo–

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DAY TWELVE: 4th September.

  Stirling, Scotland:

  “What is wrong with this weather?” muttered DCI Dawn Leggate to herself as she watched the rain roll down the double-glazing of her conservatory blurring the vision she had of her bijou garden. “One minute sunshine, next minute flaming rain.”

  She caught her spectral reflection staring back at her from the glass.

  Jesus I look as rough as I feel. Must stop over-indulging with the wine.

  She continued with her breakfast. She sawed at her over-done toast and forked in a mouthful with some scrambled egg. This was her first breakfast at home in quite some time; well since Jack moved out just over two weeks ago.

  The sound of her mobile rattling on the tiled mosaic surface of the round table-for-two snapped her back from her unhappy thoughts. She followed its vibrating movement for a few seconds before grabbing at it – cursing. She knew from the number on the screen that it was work.

  I’m on my day off damn it.

  Her mouth and tongue juggled with half chewed food which she finally slotted to one side as she did her best to answer the call.

  “This had better be good,” she said curtly, nipping her mobile between one ear and her shoulder. She listened to the voice on the other end without interrupting whilst continuing to carve up her breakfast into small portions.

  “Okay I’ll be in in thirty minutes,” she finally responded as the caller hung up. This was one of those times when she needed a cigarette. This had been her longest break from them yet; and she was proud of herself. She had managed to stay off them for eight months, two weeks and five days. She’d stop counting the hours.

  But Christ what wouldn’t I give for one right now.

  Pushing her plate into the middle of the table, she dropped her knife and fork down with a clatter and moaned to herself again as she scraped back her chair.

  * * * * *

  “Okay what have we got?” DCI Leggate demanded, pushing through the door of the CID office, fighting with her waterproof jacket as she wrestled with one sleeve to free an arm. She saw that the office was buzzing; every member of her team appeared to be in.

  “I wouldn’t take your coat off yet boss,” replied Detective Sergeant John Reed, snatching up his own grey woollen top-coat from the back of his chair and grabbing a file from atop a mountain of paperwork strewn across his desk. “We’ve got a meeting with Glasgow A Division CID. I said we’d join them”– he paused and glanced at his wristwatch – “ten minutes ago.” He slipped past her and held the door back open whilst pointing down the corridor with an outstretched arm urging her to hurry up.

  She fought to slot her arm back into her waterproof as she dodged sideways past the DS.

  He slapped the folder he was holding into her free hand. “That’s the hand-over file of the job. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  In the rear yard of the station DS John Reed turned the engine over of the unmarked CID car and waited for the screen to demist.

  Dawn gave him sideways glance. He was raking his fingers through his dark wavy collar length lanks of hair. He could do with a hair cut-she thought to herself. But as long as she’d known John his hair had always been like that; always looked unruly, and with his constant five-o’clock shadow around his jaw line and upper lip he always appeared untidy no matter how well he was dressed. She tried to think how long she had known him.

  On and off it had been just over fifteen years. How time had flown.

  John Reed had been her first DS when she had joined CID at Stirling and after three successful promotions she had returned first as his DI and now as his DCI. She trusted and respected him implicitly and had taken him into her confidence on many an occasion. He knew her innermost secrets and had never let her down. He was the best DS she had ever worked with and she had tried to persuade him on many an occasion to take his Inspector’s exams but he constantly replied that he was happy doing what he was doing and she had given up bugging him.

  “You’re going to love this job Dawn,” he said driving out of the yard, leaning across and tapping the paperwork spread open on her lap.

  John was the only person she allowed in her department to call her by her first name and only then outside the office doors.

  “Traffic spotted a silver BMW in the early hours of this morning cruising around one of the Easterhouse estates. The car’s registration number pinged up on their ANPR.”

  Dawn knew John was referring to the Traffic cars on-board computerised Automatic Number Plate Recognition system linked to the National Vehicle Centre.

  “There were three recorded hits for various parts of the registered number. Firstly a hit-and-run accident in North Yorkshire where two people were rammed off the road and seriously injured, secondly it was clocked driving away from the scene of a murder on Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow, and finally as you know from our enquiry in Killin, a silver BMW vehicle’s registration number was noted by a local walking her dog after she was suspicious about its activities around the village. Anyway ‘traffic’ had a hell of a blues-and-two’s chase but they finally caught it when it crashed into a lamp post.” He tapped the paperwork again. “It was two up and unfortunately the little bastards didn’t get hurt – not even a scratch would you believe.” He turned and gave her a wry smile before quickly returning his gaze back to the road in front. “And look at the Intel sheet of the two they arrested.”

  Dawn licked a forefinger and turned several pages until she found the section she was looking for. She started to read the typed sheet following the route of her steadying finger because of the erratic motion of the car; she guessed that John was trying to make up for lost time, but she wished he would just slow down a fraction; she was being bounced uncomfortably around in her seat.

  “Driver was Sandie Aitkinson and front seat passenger Bruce McColl. Both are well known and have form for burglary and car crime and a bit of anti-social behaviour, but none for violence. It turns out the car is on cloned plates. We visited the address of the registered keeper according to the number plates on it and they still have their own silver BMW on the drive. Anyway after Traffic checked out the chassis and engine number of the car they discovered that it belongs to someone living at an address at Belshill near Glasgow. We asked uniform to do a visit there for us early this morning and they’ve found the house broken into and the guy who lived there battered to death.”

  Dawn gave off a low whistle.

  “Told you you’d love it.”

  “Are the two prisoners saying anything?”

  “No one’s interviewed them yet, we’re letting them stew in their cells.”

  “Do we know any of the victims of the other two jobs – any links to our case at Killin?”

  “The names are somewhere in the file, I can’t remember them off-hand. North Yorkshire faxed us a copy of the statements from the man and woman who were rammed off the road. They’re from South Yorkshire.”

  Dawn began to search the folder.

  “The murder on Sauchiehall Street happened just over a week ago - and get this it’s another retired cop –
worked out of Shettlestone nick many years ago.”

  “Just like our Ross McNab?”

  “Exactly.”

  Dawn pursed her lips and let out a low whistle. “Did they work together?”

  “Don’t know much about the Sauchiehall Street murder at all, other than he was found dumped near a subway and had been given a real good hiding. His face apparently was barely recognisable – ID’d from his NARPO card. That’s why I’ve fixed up our meet with CID from Stuart Street nick. They are dealing with the job and they’re now at the scene of this latest killing in Belshill. It’s a DI McBride we’re liaising with there.”

  She knew that name and she was trying to put a face to it. She continued picking through the file and found the faxed copies of the witness statements of the hit and run in North Yorkshire. She spotted that one of the witnesses was a DS in South Yorkshire – Hunter Kerr she read.

  A Yorkshire man with a Scottish surname.

  Then the alarm bells started ringing in her head. Kerr – she had heard that name recently.

  Now where was it? Then the light switched on. It was the guy she had spoken with on the phone at the McNab’s bungalow. He was a Kerr – Jock Kerr. She recalled him telling her that before he had hung up on her.

  She flicked through the faxed statements. And there it was. The driver injured when his car was rammed off the road by the silver BMW. He was also called Jock Kerr. “This is just too much of a coincidence,” she muttered to herself,

  “What’s that Dawn?” asked DS reed, shooting her a sideways glance. “Didn’t grab what you were saying.”

  “Just thinking out loud.” She recounted her thoughts to him.

  John shook his head. “I know it’s a cliché but I have to say the plot thickens.”

  Dawn nodded in agreement. Gazing through the windscreen she saw the sign for Belshill. She closed the file.

  They entered the old part of the town, driving past row upon row of high-rise old pink sandstone tenements that had been refurbished. Within five minutes they were turning into a newer estate. The road they finally entered had already been cordoned off halfway along and looked to be busy and organised. They had to leave their unmarked car, some twenty yards from the scene because of the amount of police vehicles, which looked more abandoned than parked, and they made their way on foot towards the taped off area.

  Dawn spotted a number of local press photographers angling up their cameras and she pushed past them to approach one of the uniformed officers guarding the scene. She and John flashed their warrant badges and she asked for DI McBride. She was pointed towards a tall slim man with thinning wavy hair who had his back towards them. He was watching the forensic team erect a blue tarpaulin around scaffolding at the front entrance of a pair of modern semis.

  Dawn called out his name as she got closer and the detective spun around. She immediately recognised him; she had been on the crime scene investigation and the hostage negotiator’s course with him.

  He flashed a smile and held out a hand for her to shake.

  She took it and introduced her DS.

  “You know the reason why we’re here don’t you Alex?” She recollected his first name.

  “Aye, your DS told me over the phone. You’ve trapped up two who were caught in this victim’s car. It was on false plates, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye,” replied Dawn. “And we’ve linked the car to a murder we’re dealing with in Killin on the thirty-first of August - just five days ago. A retired cop and his wife – tortured and then set on fire. A local saw the BMW driving around the village several times on the day of the murders and thought it was suspicious so she noted down its number.

  “So I heard. And the same car could be linked to another murder just off Sauchiehall Street. We’ve got CCTV evidence of a silver BMW driving away close to the scene around the time of the murder. We’re currently enhancing the images for a reg number and to see if we can identify the driver. My team are dealing with that. I suppose you’ve heard that the victim was also a retired cop?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well this latest killing is going to grab you as well. I’ve just been told he’s a retired DS who also used to work out of Shettlestone CID. He retired back in nineteen-ninety-four. Whoever killed him has left him in a right old mess. I’ve not been inside yet, Forensics are setting up the foot plates for us to walk around the scene, but they’ve said it’s a bad one.”

  DI Alex McBride’s response momentarily rocked her back on her heels.

  Three retired detectives murdered, and all from the same station.

  -ooOoo–

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAY THIRTEEN: 5th September.

  Barnwell:

  Standing in the lounge of the pub holding onto a near empty beer glass Hunter’s thoughts drifted away, his inner vision somewhere else; his mind was revisiting the images he had seen on several occasions that morning.

  The bound book of colour photographs had been waiting for him on his desk and he had viewed them the minute he had got in. He had been so impressed with the finished look of Frankie Oliver’s work. Especially at the life-like features she had managed to form on the reconstructed head of their victim.

  He had marvelled at the artistry of the work so-much-so that he had immediately phoned her up, and as one artist to another he had applauded her skills.

  The photo’s had been referred to at the morning’s briefing. The Chief Superintendent had told the team that these were going out on the local news broadcast later that evening.

  That announcement had caught Hunter by surprise and he had shot out straight after briefing to get a set over to Zita at The Chronicle; the last thing he wanted was for her to see them on the TV when she hadn’t got her own copies as he had promised.

  As he hung around the bar he wondered if his partner Grace would be on the local news broadcast. He recollected the conversation they had had three days previously. He recalled how nervous she had been as she had told him that the boss had requested that she should join him for her first experience of a press conference at the scene of a crime. And he hadn’t spoken with her since. He’d been so wrapped up in the incident with his father that he had forgotten to ask her how it had gone.

  “Penny for them Hunter.”

  He hadn’t spotted Grace coming towards him until she spoke.

  “Crikey you made me jump! I was just thinking about you and your fifteen minutes of fame.” He pointed to a large wall mounted plasma TV playing without sound. He could see that the National news was on. “Are we going to see your bright cherubic features then this evening?”

  She dug his arm.

  “Hey less of the cherubic. That means fat doesn’t it?” She took a drink from her glass of white wine. “After spending all morning with Mr Robshaw the other day I didn’t even get a look-in with any of the TV crews. It was a waste of bloody time. And I’d got myself all done up for it as well.”

  Hunter broke into a smile. He knew what his partner was like for her make-up and fashion, even on a normal working day. He guessed she would have spent hours the night before sorting out a suitable wardrobe for her debut TV appearance. Here she was telling him that she hadn’t even managed to get a look-in.

  “That’s because to the press you’re a lowly detective, whilst he’s an interesting, high ranking, Detective Superintendent, who’s running a murder enquiry.”

  “Are you saying I’m uninteresting?” She dug Hunter again. “It’s us who does the leg work and solves the crime.”

  “Ha but that’s not what the public think.” He lifted the pint glass to his mouth and drained the last dregs of his beer. He thrust forward his empty glass. “Fancy another?”

  He watched her swill the remnants of the Chardonnay around the bottom of her glass before swallowing the last mouthful. “Just get me a coke. I’ll have that then make tracks home, I daren’t be late this evening I made a promise to take the girls out for a bite to eat. Besides I need to catch up with Dave, things have no
t been easy over the past couple of weeks.”

  “Know that feeling. The job just gets a hold of you doesn’t it? I sometimes wonder why Beth puts up with me.”

  “Must be those rugged good looks!”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said taking the empty wine glass from her. “One more won’t do you any harm.”

  “Oh, go on then, you’ve twisted my arm. Then I definitely must go.”

  Hunter yawed his way to the bar. The MIT team had virtually taken over one half of the lounge. They had broken away from work early to have a couple of swift drinks, and to watch their SIOs appeal on the local news broadcast, before they all headed for their homes.

  Some of them were hanging on to another funny story from Mike Sampson, whilst others were chatting in general.

  He knew it was these moments that bonded a team.

  Hunter squeezed himself between a small group of regulars who had congregated at the bar and caught the eye of one of the bar staff. He ordered a pint of Timothy Taylor for himself and a glass of Chardonnay for Grace. As he thrust his hands into his pocket for loose change a loud cheer and several wolf-whistles went up behind him. He spun round to see a sea of detectives faces all transfixed on the television screen. Someone shouted to the bar-staff ‘to ‘turn it up’ and Hunter began to decipher the sound. The shot was panning in on their Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, and the announcer said they were speaking from the lakeside at Barnwell Country Park. The newscaster was dubbing the storyline ‘The Lady in the Lake.’

  The SIO was commenting on the status of the enquiry and as he began to make his plea for witnesses the scene panned out and was replaced by the stills of the reconstructed face of their victim. Blown up and backlit by the television the result looked spectacular.